


Always (Safe)

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [77]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-01-29 21:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: Before now, she has known happiness.  Before now, she has known joy.  Before now, before Fareeha, her life has had meaning, had purpose, had satisfaction and so many other good things.  But in this moment?  It feels as if this is the greatest joy she has ever known, and perhaps it is.Or,Fareeha and Angela celebrate their wedding night.
Relationships: Fareeha "Pharah" Amari/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [77]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/508281
Comments: 23
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sealfarts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealfarts/gifts).

> its my bday so heres a gift from me to u

Weddings are joyous occasions, or so Angela has been told. They are beautiful, they are meaningful, they are a celebration of two people’s love for one another, of two families becoming one, a symbol of hope for the future, a belief, in that moment, that what two people feel for one another is something that will last forever, is sufficient to build a life all their own. 

All of those things, Angela can conclude, as she and Fareeha leave their reception, are true. But what no one told Angela is this—weddings are _exhausting. _Between arranging a menu that was both kosher and halal, finding a way to meaningfully combine the traditions of both her and Fareeha’s cultures, and trying to persuade their guests not to bring weapons, with limited success, Angela is tired.

Very, very tired. End of swing shift at a hospital tired.

There are many things she imagined, when she pictured as a child what it would mean to be married. Her wedding featured very few of them. Yes, she wore a dress like the one she always wanted, and a veil, but her wife—her _wife!_—is a woman, and a military one at that, who got married in her dress uniform, and their guests were mostly not Jewish, and were quite confused when Reinhardt requested the DJ play Hava Nagila, and although she enjoyed it, Fareeha on the other hand was white knuckling her chair for most of the song, apparently afraid of being dropped. Certainly, she never anticipated needing to fight her mother in law over whether or not it was appropriate to bring a gun to the wedding either, even _a small one for protection, Angela_. 

(And Genji, the traitor, did not help the matter, pointing out that in order to be unarmed he would need to be literally armless. She loves him, she does, she thinks him a dear friend, but in that moment, stressed as she was about walking down the aisle in under an hour, and all of the last minute things she needed to sort out, she could have killed him, and she thinks it would not have been unjustified.)

When Angela proposed, it is safe to say, she did not foresee many things about her wedding, did not anticipate just how stressful getting married could be.

Knowing, of course, would not change her mind, would not dissuade her from marrying Fareeha—but it might have convinced her that a courthouse wedding would be more appropriate. As it stands, they actually married two weeks earlier, in Switzerland, signed the documents in front of a judge before returning to Gibraltar and the last minute planning for this ceremony, and they are only halfway through the paperwork necessary to have their marriage recognized in Canada and Egypt. So really, she could have done without the ceremony.

(Or, so she thinks now, as she and Fareeha have found their opening to make a retreat, the remaining guests quite distracted by drinking or dancing or listening to some tale Reinhardt is telling. When, in two weeks, she sees the pictures Ana took this day, sees the photo album she so carefully assembled, Angela will be glad that they did this. And when, in twenty years, they show these pictures to their children, she will be even more grateful to have done this. But for now—she is understanding why it is people sometimes eschew this sort of thing.)

Fareeha wanted a ceremony, wanted to invite her family, and so here they are, and Angela is happy that she is happy, even if the ceremony itself was punctuated by a note of familiar melancholy when she looked out at the people who had come, and saw how many of Fareeha’s family were in attendance, while none of hers could be. That passed quickly enough, in any case, when she saw that her friends from synagogue had come, despite this being a decidedly non-Jewish wedding, and some of her friends from her time in MSF, and of course all of the people about whom she cares about most, in Overwatch.

No, that sadness, and this exhaustion, were worth it to see Fareeha happy, and to call Fareeha her wife, even if their extensive guest list means that they are sneaking out of their own wedding reception, because it has been far too many hours and they are ready to _sleep._

Or, that is what Angela is thinking about when they get a moment just to the two of them, done with dancing with everyone else who was invited, and she whispers to Fareeha, “We should leave now, while we still can.”

Really, it is.

Somehow, though, between the thrill of escaping their wedding unnoticed, hand in hand, and running to her car, and then trying to make their way back onto base without being spotted by any of their guests who might have already made it back, she finds herself forgetting that she is tired, that what she wanted was _sleep_.

Suddenly, something else entirely is on her mind, particularly when Fareeha pushes her up against the wall of the elevator on base and kisses her so deeply her knees go weak. 

She is tired, she is, is exhausted, really, but for Fareeha, for her _wife_—sleep can wait.

Eager as she is to be in bed, she knows that Fareeha has something else planned entirely, particularly given the way her wife wraps both arms around her and kisses her neck while she struggles to fish the keys to their door out of her bag.

“You know,” says she to Fareeha, “You’ll have a much better angle once we get inside.”

“Right,” Fareeha agrees, releasing her immediately, so _eager_ in a way Angela is unused to.

(This is not to say Fareeha is an _uneager_ lover, only that now, she has an almost nervous energy about her, a kind of excitement that makes it seem like the two of them have not done this a thousand times before. Well, perhaps not a thousand, but at least several hundred, over the last three years.)

After a bit more fumbling—and maybe she, too, is uncharacteristically eager, in the moment, she manages to open the door, is putting her keys back in her bag when she notices Fareeha is moving to step in and—

“Wait!” says she, “Threshold!”

Fareeha freezes, and immediately looks at the threshold, one hand moving to where, normally, she has a weapon. “I don’t see anything.”

“No,” says Angela, “I mean—I’m supposed to carry you over the threshold, right?”

“Oh,” Fareeha’s posture relaxes considerably in that moment. “Well, one of us is supposed to be carried, sure.”

“Mm-hmm,” says Angela, “So just hold my bag and I can pick you up.”

“Why are you carrying me?” Fareeha asks, “I’m stronger.”

At that, Angela raises an eyebrow, “And?” Just because Fareeha is stronger than she is does not mean she is not plenty strong enough to carry Fareeha herself. Relative strength is not important here, only the ability to walk four or five steps, and she has managed more when Fareeha was in her armor, rather than a light dress uniform.

“I’m also wearing flat shoes,” Fareeha points out, “And pants. I don’t want you tripping on that dress and hurting us both.”

“I won’t drop you,” Angela insists, “And I’m not going to trip—I had no problem dancing all night.”

(At least, she is not _planning _on dropping Fareeha. It would be unfortunate if they spent their first night as wives monitoring Fareeha for a concussion.)

“But if you did...”

“I won’t,” says she. “Don’t be ridiculous. When have I ever dropped you?” Not once, in all of their missions. Always, Fareeha is safe in her arms.

(And their friends are, too, except for that one time, with Jesse, but really, that was _his _fault.)

“You haven’t,” Fareeha admits, after a moment, “But I want to carry you.”

Feeling a bit ridiculous for even saying this, and childish for having this argument, but also wanting very much to do this for her _wife_, Angela insists, “It was me who remembered, now let me pick you up.”

“Maybe we can take turns?” Fareeha asks, and Angela almost gives in just so she can get inside and take her shoes off, before realizing that would actually take longer.

“What, walk back out and then have you carry me in afterwards? That’s ridiculous.”

“This whole argument is ridiculous,” Fareeha points out, conveniently not mentioning that it was she who instigated it, “But we _are _only marrying once.”

Technically, they are going to be married three times, filling out their paperwork in multiple countries, but Angela rather doubts that Fareeha would like to hear that right now, and considering that redundancy reminds her of another one, so she says, “And we have _two _thresholds, so let me carry you here, and you carry me into the bedroom, yes? Then we can be done with this and move on to the fun part.”

Fareeha blinks, nods, looks a bit embarrassed, perhaps over the argument, or over the fact that neither of them thought of it before now, and says, “Right,” before she moves to take Angela’s bag and says, “So… you just pick me up now and that’s it?”

Thinking about it, Angela realizes that although she has heard this custom mentioned countless times, she does not actually know how it works in practice, has never seen anyone do it. She supposes that, as Fareeha says, she just picks her wife up, but is not actually _sure. _

With a bit of awkwardness, and not too comfortably, given that Fareeha’s medals are now poking into one of her breasts, she picks Fareeha up in her arms and takes the four steps necessary to get across the threshold as quickly as possible. It is… not as romantic as she imagined, but Fareeha seems to enjoy it, giving a small squeak of surprise when Angela suddenly lifts her, and walks across the threshold as quickly as possible, eager to put this awkwardness behind them, and to be able to say that it is _done_.

Then it is over—she sets Fareeha down very carefully, turns to close the door while Fareeha sets down her bag for her—and they are alone.

Practically speaking, this is not actually something important, given that, unlike young couples of generations ago, this is hardly their first time alone together. In fact, they have been living in the same quarters for more than two years now. Yet, despite the fact that they have done this countless times before, it _does _feel different now, somehow, in a way that Angela cannot quite place, and she knows it is ridiculous, that there is not tangible difference between this night and the thousand which have preceded it, but she turns, and she looks at Fareeha, whose lipstick is smeared from their overenthusiastic kiss in the elevator, locks eyes with her _wife_, and feels her breath hitch and her heart stutter.

“We’re married,” says she, in an awed whisper, as if she had just realized the most wonderful thing, as if this were not the focus of their entire day, and the cause of anxiety for the past few weeks leading up to the wedding. Of _course _they are married, and she could kick herself for saying something so obvious, but she cannot help herself, and even finds herself following up with “You’re my _wife_,” before she can stop herself.

“I am,” Fareeha says, and she is grinning so broadly that it is almost comical, “And you’re _my _wife.” There is a delighted little laugh, at the end of that sentence, and not knowing what is funny, Angela laughs, too, and it is such a silly thing, to be laughing at this, yet they are, laughing as Fareeha spins her around, and laughing into one another’s mouths as they share a decidedly clumsier than usual kiss. 

It is perfect, in that moment, it is lovely, and funny, and just so overwhelmingly _good_ that Angela can think of nothing else, forgets the ache in her feet from the heels that she wore, and the stress of the day, and the tiredness that dogs her, and thinks—_yes_, this is perfect.

Before now, she has known happiness. Before now, she has known joy. Before now, before Fareeha, her life has had meaning, had purpose, had satisfaction and so many other good things.

But in this moment? It feels as if this is the greatest joy she has ever known, and perhaps it is.

Then, as all moments do, it ends, and Angela is still so happy she feels like she could burst with it, but she is also tired, and her feet are sore, and she thinks that she will need a restroom soon, too. Being with Fareeha is perfect, but she is still very much human, and they cannot stand here indefinitely, Fareeha leaning her back against the end of their kitchen counter, barely four steps into their doorway.

Gently, she pushes Fareeha back, says, “I love you,” but not softly, not romantically, just as a reflexive thing, because she is so used to loving Fareeha, to being with in love with her, that the words have become so easy to say—no less meaningful for that, but easier nonetheless, because loving Fareeha is the most natural thing in the world—and sometimes, she uses them to soften a blow, “But I’d rather we got changed and maybe moved to the bedroom for this?”

(As much as she has enjoyed sex on their kitchen counter, and against their door, and on their couch, and any number of places, she thinks that she really would rather get out of her dress and into something else, first, and would _definitely _prefer that they have sex elsewhere on their wedding night. The threshold is hardly romantic, as it turns out.)

“Of course,” Fareeha says, “But you have to let me carry you, don’t think I’ve forgotten.” Her voice is teasing, but Angela knows that she _does _mean it, really wants to do this, because Fareeha is the sort of person for whom romantic gestures and symbolism are important, as opposed to Angela, who mostly wanted to try it because it is tradition, and because she was caught up in the moment.

More smoothly than Angela did her, Fareeha lifts Angela, crosses the entire length of their dining and living areas, and to the door of their bedroom—which is closed.

“Ähm,” says she, “Do you want me to open that for you, Fareeha?”

“If you don’t mind?” Fareeha asks. “I could put you down and do it myself, instead, but…”

“It’s no trouble,” says she, and really, it is not, the door is open before she has finished the sentence, and she readjusts herself easily in Fareeha’s arms, once again wrapping them around her neck. “Okay, I’m ready now.”

“I know,” Fareeha says, smiles down at her, “I just wanted a moment to enjoy this. One last moment before we’re _really _married.”

Angela is not sure she agrees with the sentiment, that entering the bedroom somehow marks their marriage as more real. After all, neither of them were virgins when they met, and they _certainly _are not now. What will really be different?

But this is one last tradition, she knows, one last thing before the ceremony is fully done and there is no more script for them to follow, nothing to do before they are _newlyweds, _not the brides. It is exciting, and a bit nerve-wracking, and that, at least, Angela can appreciate.

So she waits patiently for one moment more, two, before Fareeha takes that step, then two more, three, crosses to the center of their room and deposits Angela gently on the bed.

“Well,” says Fareeha, after she sets her down, “I guess that’s that.”

“I guess so,” Angela agrees, and does not know, quite, what to do next.

“Do you want to change first,” Fareeha asks her, “Or should I?”

At that, Angela blinks, “Can’t we just undress each other?” It would, she thinks, make sense. They have done it many times before, and it is nice enough, most of the time, is a kind of foreplay in and of itself.

Fareeha frowns. “In theory,” says she, “But—I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this—I don’t want you to just toss my dress uniform on the floor,” the _again _is implied, but Angela knows it is there, remembers the pain of having stepped on it the next morning, pins still in the fabric.

“Ah,” says Angela, “Reasonable. I’ll take the restroom first, then?”

“Go ahead,” Fareeha says, gestures towards the door as she does so.

“Thank you,” says Angela, slipping past her and grabbing a nice robe before entering. 

Quickly as she can, she removes her make-up, which held out well enough throughout the day, but is looking worse for wear after she and Fareeha’s several more _passionate _kisses in the past few minutes, which did far more damage to her lipstick than their decidedly tame altar kiss. As good as Fareeha’s dark lipstick looks on _her_, it is not the best shade on Angela’s mouth. With care, she removes all the pins from her hair, counts them as she does so, not wanting to leave anything in, or drop any to the floor to be stepped on later. Then, when she looks half herself, and need not worry about smearing foundation on the inside of her dress, she leaves the mirror, and moves to take off her dress—carefully as can be. 

(It will be simpler, she thinks, to remove the dress before using the toilet. She has already fought with it in a wheelchair-accessible stall once today, and is _not_ about to do so again. There is entirely too much fabric to hold up, and she is suddenly very grateful to live in an era where most women wear pants, most of the time, and most hemlines fall at or above the knee, when that is not the case.)

First, she takes off her shoes, sets them to the side, one next to the other, then she unzips her dress, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, takes it off the left shoulder, then the right, carefully slides it down over her hips. Ideally, it should go over her head, she knows, but halfway through unzipping it occurred to her that without help, such would not be a simple task, and so she is just very, _very _careful as it passes over the widest part of her hips, and thankfully, although it is a bit tight, she is able to remove it without straining the fabric, without ripping or tearing or pulling too hard at the stitches, and when it is finally down, she steps out of it, careful not to step on the fabric as she does so, to tangle in it or pull at it, and then, she picks it up, turns and—

—Realizes that, having forgotten the hanger, she can do nothing with it. Brilliant.

“Fareeha?” asks she, hiding all but her face behind the door, “Could you pass me a hanger?” 

Fareeha is, herself, already undressed, sitting on their bed completely nude, reading something another on her phone.

“What?” asks she, and then, “Oh, sure. Where’s the hanger?”

Angela winces, remembering, “Back at our venue.” She does not even know _where _at the venue, only that last she saw it, it was in her dressing room, garment bag with it, as she was focusing on fixing her hair and doing her makeup before she headed out. 

“I’m not exactly dressed to see guests,” Fareeha points out, and Angela noticed, is still noticing, in fact, is seeing just how far up her body the henna on her feet continues, and hoping that her thoughts are not showing on her face, “But if you don’t mind hanging your dress on one of the suit hangers overnight, we can have it on the door of the closet, so its outside, not touching anything, and it _should _be fine for one night?”

“That should work, thank you,” Angela agrees, because she is going to be getting the dress dry cleaned soon anyway, so if anything _does_ happen, she can get it fixed then.

(Of course, she is not going to tell Fareeha that she intends to clean the dress. _I was so nervous that I’m sure this reeks of sweat _is neither romantic nor sexy, even if it is true.)

Fareeha passes her the hanger, then, and she almost forgets that she is trying to keep a secret, and steps out from behind the door, before she remembers herself and stays put. After that, it is a simple thing to hang the dress, and she notes to her pleasure that although she cannot confirm whether or not it smells, it at least does not have any makeup on it—not even from when she was carrying Fareeha, and her face brushed for a moment against Angela’s sleeve.

Good. That sorted, she can use the toilet, wash her hands, and run a quick shower wipe over herself to refresh a bit, and then step out.

_In _her robe. That, at least, she wants Fareeha to have the pleasure of taking off, so that she can see for herself what Angela is wearing underneath, what she has been wearing all day, in fact.

(Getting into her dress was a bit embarrassing, because it meant that Mei saw what it was she was wearing underneath, but fortunately she was nice enough not to say anything, and spared Angela further discomfiture. Buying this number—at Lena’s insistence, and _with _her—was bad enough.)

_Deep breath_, she tells herself, just take a deep breath. Plenty of women buy bridal lingerie. There is nothing silly about it, or unusual. Still, it is a bit more risqué than Angela’s usual, is more like something _Fareeha _might wear, with its slits and garters. Of the two of them, Angela wears lingerie more often, yes, but Fareeha is the one who is more adventurous on the rare occasion that she does. Angela sticks to bras and matching panties, and considers that a job well done.

But tonight—well, she is only married once, yes? So she can go all out. She _should. _And she need not be embarrassed by that either.

Well, maybe a little embarrassment is not a bad thing, anyway.

So she collects herself, she secures her robe—the nice, silk one, not the fluffy one she really prefers—around her waist a little tighter, and steps out.

Only for Fareeha to move right past her, bag in hand.

Right. She should _probably _have expected this. 

“Sorry,” says she, “If you needed the toilet you could’ve told me. I wouldn’t have made you wait.”

“No,” Fareeha’s voice is muffled by the door, “I don’t. I’m just—just give me a minute, okay?”

“Okay,” says she, hangs up her dress, and realizes that now there really is _nothing _to do. After so many weeks spent stressing and planning, another person might be relieved, but she is not, is still filled with nervous energy and very much wishing things could just begin, already, because at least she knows what she ought to be doing, when they have sex.

Because waiting?

At that, she is hopeless.

Angela, although more patient than Fareeha, is not used to periods of calm, or not ones in which she is free to relax, anyway, and so although she might wait on the bed as Fareeha did, she does not check her phone—does not even remember where it is, truthfully—but instead sits, and tries not to kick her feet, and wonders what it is Fareeha might mean.

One minute, two, and then Fareeha, also bare faced, with her beads removed from her hair, emerges considerably less nervously than did Angela, in a very familiar lingerie set.

It is not the one Angela bought, fortunately, but Angela thinks that she knows _exactly _where Fareeha went to purchase it.

God help her, she laughs. She does not mean to, does not _want _to, because it is not nice to laugh at someone when they are trying to do something sexy, is, in fact, usually a blow to the ego, but she cannot help it. For both of them to plan the same surprise—and to go to the same store—when they agreed previously not to include bridal lingerie in their wedding budget, is _funny_. It is funny and so very, very like them.

“What’s so amusing?” Fareeha asks, and although her words are not hurt, Angela knows from her tone that laughter was not the best response.

“I’m sorry,” says she, and she is, “It’s just—I also—look.” To show Fareeha is easier than to explain, so she stands and unties her robe, allows it to drop to the floor and pool at her feet, revealing a very similar set of lingerie.

“I thought we agreed not to!” Fareeha is laughing now, too, but she also is clearly enjoying what she sees.

“Well,” says Angela, “Yes, but you’re wearing it, too.

“Mom bought this,” Fareeha tells her. “She insisted I’d want it.”

“Ana bought it?” Suddenly, it is less sexy. _Much _less sexy.

A shrug from Fareeha, “I mean, I picked it out, but yeah, she made me let her pay for it. So the only one breaking our budget agreement is _you._”

“I’m not—” Angela starts, before realizing that she in fact _is_. “Okay, yes, that might be the case, but I paid for it myself, and not with our joint wedding budget.”

(Their accounts are still separate, even though they are married now, because they have not bothered, yet, to pool their finances, and may never do so. When multiple currencies are involved, such things become complicated quite quickly.)

“That’s fair,” Fareeha says, “But I’m surprised you bought it at all, to be honest. It was _your _idea not to get any,” and the fact that it was quite expensive goes unsaid.

“It was Lena’s suggestion,” Angela admits, “Obviously it’s not really… my usual style.”

“No,” Fareeha says, “It certainly isn’t. Not that I’m complaining, but it’s a little, uh… weird.”

At that, Angela frowns, “Weird is your _mother _knowing what you’re wearing to have sex with me on our wedding night.”

“Ugh!” Fareeha makes a face, “When you put it like that…”

“Maybe,” Angela suggests, “We should _both _change.” As much as she likes how Fareeha looks, the effect is somewhat ruined by knowing that _Ana _has seen the set, of all people.

“It’s probably for the best,” Fareeha agrees, “I’m not really sure what to do with garters anyway.”

There are a few things Angela can think of—but not on garters her mother-in-law bought.

(And that is a strange thought, that she has a _mother-in-law _now. But she does. She has a mother-in-law, and a father-in-law, and most importantly a _wife._ It feels so right and so overwhelming, all at once, to think of it. She has a family again, now, after so long without one, both in the eyes of the law and in her heart.)

So, without waiting for further confirmation, Angela begins to remove the lingerie she has—needlessly—been wearing all day, and is grateful for it. Although the fit is good, it still feels nice to be braless, at the end of a long day, and she does not really give it much of a second thought, taking her lingerie off and tossing it aside, vaguely in the direction of their laundry hamper.

As always, Fareeha is more meticulous, moving to sit on the bed next to Angela and then carefully rolling down her stocking on one leg, then folding it and putting it aside.

“Would you like a hand with that, Mrs. Amari?” Angela offers, heart swelling with the realization, as she says it, that Fareeha is now _Mrs. Amari_, and will be for the rest of her life, is her _wife_ now.

(She has had similar thoughts all afternoon, since the ceremony ended, but the novelty has not yet worn off. Every time she is able to refer to Fareeha as her wife in some way, it is perfect, is lovely, is something she could not have even dreamed, a few years ago, and now—now it serves as a reminder that on this day, all is right in her world. Fareeha is _her wife_, and insofar as she is able, is never going to leave Angela behind, never going to abandon her, is going to be here for her til death do they part. Her heart swells when she ways it, and she cannot help but smile, and all feels right with the world, in that instant, because this is the way things should be.)

It seems to take a moment for Fareeha to realize that _Mrs. Amari_ is her, but then she brightens and says, “If you’d like, please.”

Angela would, in fact, like, quite enjoys the view of Fareeha in only her bra and one stocking as she kneels between Fareeha’s legs, to remove it, and enjoys even more taking her time in taking it off, watching Fareeha respond to the feeling of Angela’s fingers on her skin, now, the way her breath hitches when Angela smooths one hand over her thigh, and inspecting with a great deal of interest the henna pattern which begins—ends?—at Fareeha’s hips and the inside of her thighs, follows it down, down, down the lines of her wife’s body. Like this, Fareeha is so lovely.

She is _always _lovely, in Angela’s eyes. When she is serious, when she laughs, when she is making a funny face while trying to solve a crossword, she is _always _lovely, to Angela’s eyes, but like this, her pupils beginning to grow large, dark eyes swallowed by them, covered in lovely sharp lines that stand out against her skin, and clearly so _very _interested in what Angela is doing, body alive with the first flush of arousal—like this, she is especially so.

Carefully, Angela removes the stocking, does nothing otherwise suggestive or untoward, but she knows how it must look, her kneeling like this nude, between Fareeha’s legs, fingers moving so softly across her skin, one hand on the stocking and the other tracing the pattern left by the henna brush, lines not so delicate as Fareeha is used to seeing, but instead strong and sharp, in a way that suits her wife perfectly. It is obvious that Fareeha wants her, in this moment, and Angela loves that, herself finds attractive the sight before her, Fareeha wearing only a bra and half of one stocking, trying not to respond to what it is she is seeing, when she so clearly wants to.

“Like what you see?” she asks, tone innocent, even if the way she flutters her eyelashes is anything but.

Fareeha’s hand on the sheet tightens in response, “You know I do,” says she, “Now hurry up, won’t you?”

“So impatient, Mrs. Amari,” Angela observes, and such is always true of Fareeha—she is delightfully easy to tease—but now it feels especially significant. Fareeha is not just impatient, she is impatient because she wants to be touched by _her wife. _

Many times, they have tried something new in their relationship, but so many of their firsts have been firsts with one another, and not firsts _ever. _This, however, is something that neither of them has done before, is something that is really, truly entirely new to the both of them. Marriage.

“Perhaps,” Fareeha agrees, “But I have good reason to be, I think.”

Angela does not disagree with that, merely hums and resumes her job of pulling down the stocking. Were it not so expensive, she would pull it down with her mouth, and she still toys with the idea, before concluding that it might, in fact, be more sexy _in theory _than in practice, and abandoning the idea.

She does not, however, resist the impulse to kiss her way back up Fareeha’s leg after having removed the stocking, one kiss or each place where a cluster of the lines of the henna design meet, until she reaches the place on the top of Fareeha’s hip bones where the lines stop. Then, and only then, does she look up, and is gratified to find that Fareeha is biting her lip, obviously very interested in the proceedings. 

“Your stocking, Mrs. Amari?” says she, offering the garment in question up to her wife, and trying to suppress the smile that wants to break across her face when she says the phrase _Mrs. Amari_, and thinks of Fareeha as her wife. 

It is a silly thing, she knows, but she is just so _happy_. So, so happy.

“Thank you,” Fareeha says, takes it from her, and folds it carefully, before moving to remove her bra.

“I can—” Angela starts, but Fareeha interrupts.

“It’s fine,” says she, “I’ve got it,” and her tone is different, now, in a way Angela does not like.

Somewhat uncertainly, she says, “Alright,” and waits, patiently, for her opportunity to make another move on Fareeha. Given that she feels as if she were just rebuffed—even if that was not the case—she is not entirely sure what to do next, and stays there for a moment before ultimately deciding to move to sit next to Fareeha.

Again, she is nervous, does not know why, besides the vague feeling that something is _off_, but with no evidence of that, there is naught to do but wait.

Fortunately, she does not have to do so long. Fareeha divests herself of the bra rather quickly, and then sets it down neatly atop the rest of the set, before moving to tuck it all away in a drawer. 

And then she is back, is moving to sit next to Angela, again, in the same position she was in a minute ago, and Angela thinks—_Good, I can continue where we left off_, moves to kneel again, before one of Fareeha’s hands comes to stop her.

“What are you doing?” Fareeha asks, hand on Angela’s kneed to keep her in place.

Angela frowns, “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Well,” Fareeha says, “_Yes_, but why?”

That, Angela has no immediate response to. “It’s our wedding night?” Yes, she is tired, and Fareeha probably is too, but she thought for sure that tonight, of all nights, it was understood that they would be intimate. They even discussed the matter, a few nights ago, and planned their wedding at a time when Fareeha would not be menstruating, too.

“I know _that_,” Fareeha sounds a bit exasperated, “But I thought we agreed that things were going to be vanilla tonight.”

Now Angela is confused, “I—they are, though?” She has not exactly tried to get out a toy, or suggested that Fareeha might want to tie her up, or anything of the sort.

“You’re acting submissive—"

“I am _not,_” she insists, because in her mind, at least, she is the one initiating things, and what is so submissive about that?

“—And you’ve called me Mrs. Amari at least three times in the last four minutes.”

_Ah_. That.

“I’m not—” Angela finds herself laughing, again, “That’s not me trying to be submissive, Fareeha, I promise.”

(In fact, Angela is hardly a verbally submissive person, unless prompted to be. Even when they do play with exchanges of power, it is often Angela in control, and on the occasions when it is not, she does not like to use titles. It just feels strange to her, too much a reminder of their work in the military, and that is not at _all _sexy.)

“Oh,” Fareeha seems lost, but also not necessarily displeased, “Then why are you saying it?”

Angela can feel herself blush, even though it should not feel silly to admit this, of all things, “I only meant to—it’s nice to say. You’re my _wife _now,” says she, and cannot stop herself smiling as she says _wife_. “And I just like saying it.”

Fareeha looks like she might cry. Often, in very emotional moments, she does, particularly happy ones, and Angela would not blame her if she did.

After a moment, however, she seems to collect herself, sniffs once, and then, voices somewhat higher and waterier than usual, says, “That’s very sweet, Mrs. Ziegler.”

“Doctor,” Angela corrects, entirely on instinct, the result of a lifetime of people forgetting or simply ignoring the title she worked so hard to earn.

“Doctor Mrs. Ziegler,” Fareeha says, teasingly, before Angela can apologize.

At that, Angela rolls her eyes, but she supposes that she brought it upon herself, “Technically, its Doctor Mrs. Ziegler, M.D., Ph.D., but I suppose it can be Angela, to you.”

A thoughtful hum from Fareeha, “Only if you agree to call me Fareeha.”

“We have a deal, then,” Angela agrees, and when Fareeha extends a hand to shake, she takes it, does so solemnly, as if they were making a deal, before dissolving again into laughter.

It is decidedly _not _sexy, the way she collapses into Fareeha, face buried in her wife’s shoulder, snorting with it, but the whole situation is just so ridiculous, the way they have treated this like a business introduction, and she is so _happy_, so glad to call this silly, principled, capable woman her wife.

At least Fareeha is laughing, too. Unlike Angela, she does not have the bad habit of laughing at her own jokes, so this must have actually been funny, for her to join in. And it is so lovely to hear, that rich, warm laugh, while she feels Fareeha’s shoulders shake with it.

There is something ridiculous about this, the two of them taking off the fancy lingerie they bought only to sit here laughing in the nude, and not even trying to make a move on one another, but it also feels so very right.

In time, however, the laughter fades, and then, gradually, Angela becomes so very aware of the fact that they are here, in bed, naked together, and it is their wedding night, and Fareeha smells so nice, and looks so lovely, and suddenly, although she was content only a moment ago to just laugh, she realizes that she_ wants _so much more, wants to touch Fareeha, to be touched by here, to show her just how much she loves her, to make Fareeha feel even a fraction of the joy Angela is experiencing in the moment.

The energy between them shifts, and they quiet, and then Fareeha brings her other hand, the flesh one, up to move Angela’s head, tilting her chin up at the right angle to kiss her, and there is nothing _funny _about that.

Passionate, yes, and deep, and arousing, but not at all funny.

Angela moves to deepen the kiss, reaches one hand out to put on the back of Fareeha’s head, only for her wife to pull back.

“If we can agree,” says she, “To table the Mrs. Amari talk for now,” to which Angela nods eagerly, “Then I’d very much like to make love to my wife.”

If Angela thought it was nice to call Fareeha her own wife, then it is ten times better to hear herself referred to as Fareeha’s wife. Just hearing those words makes her feel warm, and happy, and she knows that it is going to be that way for the rest of her life, now, and one day will become something entirely familiar to her, something to which she is accustomed, but for now it something beautiful and new, something which she knew she would love, but is in reality far better than she could ever have dreamed up.

Regardless of that sentiment, however, her nose wrinkles at a part of that sentence, “‘Make love to?’” ask she. Usually, they do not say something nearly so ridiculous. _Fuck_, sometimes, _have sex_, others, _be intimate_, when one of them is trying hard to be romantic, but _making love _is just absurd.

“I was trying to be romantic,” Fareeha pouts, and Angela thinks that, her word choice aside, Fareeha looks so _good _in this moment, so beautiful, her lips full and her eyes still shining with happy tears.

For a moment, Angela considers how best to phrase this, before settling on, “Maybe we shouldn’t try so hard?” It has not been working for them thus far, attempting to do something different from their normal routine. “What we do usually is romantic enough for me.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Fareeha agrees, and secretly, Angela is relieved. Romance is hardly her forte, and Fareeha might be better at it, but that just makes things more awkward, sometimes, the one-sidedness of it all.

Angela leans in to kiss Fareeha again, whispers, “Good,” against Fareeha’s lips, and kisses her again, deeper this time, pulls herself further into Fareeha’s lap as she does so, and threads one hand in Fareeha’s hair, the other bracing on her shoulder. In this position, she controls the tempo, and her wife—her _wife!_—seems happy to comply, groaning into the kiss and moving her own hands to rest on Angela’s waist and on her ass, squeezing and pulling her in closer.

By now, they are good at this, know the right rhythm and tempo of a kiss to ensure that the other person enjoys it, and know what an appropriate speed to progress is. In fact, they have quite a lot of experience with _this _part, having spent the better part of a year trying to stealthily make out with one another, before Angela was comfortable with progressing their relationship to a fully sexual one, and before anyone knew that anything was going on between the two of them.

(Or, rather, before they knew anyone knew. As it turns out, most people knew that Angela and Fareeha were in love with one another long before they admitted it to themselves, let alone did anything about it. What was obvious on the outside was harder to see for the two of them, their feelings for one another being strong enough that it seemed reasonable, to both of them, that they might simply have a particularly strong friendship. Attraction came later, for Angela at least, and what she felt was easy enough to explain away as simply caring deeply for Fareeha as a friend, for a very long time, because the lust she expected to precede such romantic feelings took longer to emerge.)

They could do this for quite some time—Angela knows from experience—but she does not want to wait that long, out of both eagerness and tiredness both. If they are going to do this, she thinks they should probably be quick, if only because she knows herself well enough by now to know that her propensity to fall asleep after a particularly strong orgasm might interfere with whatever it is Fareeha has planned. Embarrassing as it is to admit, that has happened to them more than once in the past, and although planning a wedding might not be quite so exhausting as being on the battlefield, Angela thinks it might have come close.

So she moves, again, to progress things, gently guides Fareeha down to lie on her back, kisses her one more time, perfunctorily, before sitting up to enjoy the view, for just a moment, Fareeha lying beneath her with her pupils large and dark, breathing quicker than normal, lips swollen from kissing. The henna design Angela could see, earlier, on her flesh hand, extends all the way up her arms, and then down, again, over her collarbone, to cover the top of her breasts, ending where something is written—Angela’s name, and something else, harder to make out, given that Arabic calligraphy is not something Angela has much experience in reading. No matter what it is, it looks lovely, lines emphasizing the lines to Fareeha’s body, the sharpness at her collarbones a nice contrast to the delicate script on her far softer breasts.

_Perfect_, she thinks, and so is she about to say, as soon as eh can find the words for how lovely her wife looks in this moment, how beautiful, but then Fareeha holds up one henna covered hand, says, “Wait.”

Angela obliges, does not question the why of the request, is not concerned with such things anymore. Once, she would have worried that she had done something wrong, but by now she and Fareeha are familiar enough with one another that she knows that she can do everything right and still, sometimes, her partner, her _wife_, will need a moment. That is fine, is not something Angela has any wish to change or to contest, so long as they both are happy—and thus far, respecting such has made them so.

“I think,” says Fareeha, after a moment, “That maybe I should go first.”

Angela blinks, “Aren’t you already going first?”

“I mean,” Fareeha says, “I guess? But I meant I should—” a small frown, not uncomfortable, exactly, but something near to it, “You know I come faster. I don’t want to—this way, you get to enjoy yourself first, and we can decide _then_ if we want to go another round.”

Ah, this again. Fareeha seems to think it _unfair_, if she comes thrice in a night and Angela only once. Truthfully, Angela does not care, thinks that one drawn-out orgasm is enough to satisfy her, always, but if it makes Fareeha happy, she is certainly not going to object to a second.

“Alright,” says she, moves up off of Fareeha and allows her a moment to sit up, herself. “What do you want to do, then?”

“Well,” says Fareeha, after _very little _consideration. “You know how the first time we—I held you and you guided me? That was nice.”

It was, and they have done it since, but Angela can appreciate that Fareeha for _symbolic _reasons might refer to it as the first time, even if Angela herself tries not to put too much priority on firsts in her life, cares far less about the implications of such a thing.

“Alright,” she agrees, “Move over towards the headboard, then.”

Fareeha does so quickly, settles in and spreads here legs for Angela to sit between, reaches out to hold her, and Angela happily moves to comply. She feels _safe_ like this, always has, surrounded by Fareeha, sheltered by her. Fareeha is so strong, so steady, and she can be so achingly gentle, and Angela wonders how she got this lucky, to be able to be held like this by the woman she loves, and to be loved by someone so wonderful as Fareeha.

(She uses strong words like that a lot, she knows, in describing Fareeha—wonderful, beautiful, lovely, perfect—but she means all of them, genuinely believes that her wife is all of those things, and cannot imagine her life with anyone else, cannot picture anyone who would make her happier. There are many people who are also compassionate, who are also kind, who are also good leaders, and care about justice and protecting the innocent, but none of them are _Fareeha_, at once so stalwart, so funny, and so sensitive, none of them are Fareeha, who holds her as gently as if she were made of glass, but also trusts Angela to be strong, when the situation calls for it. So she uses those words, and she means them. Fareeha is not actually perfect, she knows, and she will never demand that of her wife, but Fareeha is perfect for _her_, she thinks, and really, that is what matters. Fareeha makes here perfectly happy, when no one else could.)

Leaning back against Fareeha, she notices the familiar smell of Fareeha’s shampoo, clinging to the part of her hair which, beaded, stayed damp all day, and another smell that is uniquely _Fareeha_, the smell of her body which, by now, Angela has come to recognize, and to feel comforted by, and something else—a perfume, floral. It is such a delicate scent, but one somehow very well suited to her wife, and Angela has to resist the urge to close her eyes and try to focus on the scent, to pin down what went into this particular, presumably new, perfume. They have, after all more important things to focus on. 

Things such as this, the way Fareeha’s hands take her own, the callouses on the right one just as familiar as the cool metal of the left, and begin to trace little circles on her abdomen, teasing her as she likes to be teased. There is a pattern, Angela thinks, to the motion, but she cannot quite make it out, wonders if she ought to know, or if this is something of Fareeha’s own creation.

Maybe, thinks she, “Is there a meaning,” she asks, “To the patterns in the henna?”

“What?” Fareeha asks, hands still moving, but voice surprised, “You’re thinking about that now?”

“Well, you’re tracing _something_,” Angela says, a bit defensively, and it is not as if she meant for her mind to wander, but if Fareeha wanted her to focus then she should not have created a mystery for her, like this. Both of them are naturally curious people, although Fareeha is more so for the sake of knowledge, and Angela merely wants an answer for all of her questions, a solution to every problem.

“There isn’t a meaning to it,” Fareeha says, “Really. It’s just whatever the person doing the design thinks looks nice.”

Well, that would certainly explain why the lines on Fareeha’s legs are far different from the ones Angela saw on the hands of her cousins and a few of their friends, are sharper, more in fitting with Fareeha’s own aesthetic principles, but it does not explain one thing: “Then why is my name written on your breasts?” Angela’s Arabic may be rough, and far more focused on speaking than reading or writing, but she recognizes that much, at least.

“It’s over my heart! Not on my breasts!” Fareeha is quick to object, “And it’s meant to be sweet.”

Practically hearing the pout in Fareeha’s voice, Angela turns to face her wife, a movement made somewhat awkward by the position they have found themselves, in, and kisses Fareeha on the lips once, quickly, “It _is _sweet,” says she, “But it’s kind of funny, too. And definitely unexpected.”

“It’s traditional,” Fareeha tells her. “I may have decided the specific message, but I couldn’t exactly get out of it.”

“What does it say?” Angela asks, hand reaching out to trace the design.

“You can read it,” Fareeha encourages her, “I know you can.”

Shaking her head, Angela insists “I really can’t. Basic script I’m okay with, but calligraphy is way beyond my skill level.” Two years in Cairo taught her to speak the language well, but she never needed to read much more than a menu, all her paperwork for MSF being in English or French. And this? Words arranged in the shape of a heart? She cannot begin to read it, no matter how simple it may be.

“Alif,” Fareeha points to the first letter, and then the next, and the next, “Nuun, alif, baa, haa, baa, kaaf.”

Angela thinks for a moment, A-N-A-B-H-B-K, before she realizes, _I love you. _“Oh,” says she, “I love you too.” It is sweet, even if the process of reading it off of her lover’s chest still feels a little silly, to her, and very unfamiliar. “I didn’t do anything similar,” says she, “Obviously.”

What she did last night was, in fact, quite the opposite. Nothing was drawn upon her. Instead, she went to the mikvah, and checked every centimeter of her skin to ensure it was clean and unadorned, plain as the day she was born—or more so, really, given that then she was covered in blood an amniotic fluid—and once she was sure that nothing clung to her, she let the attendant check her, and stepped into the bath, submerged herself entirely and let herself be made pure. When she emerged, after every part of herself had been covered in the water, she said the prayer, and submerged herself again, one time, two. The solitude of it, the contemplation, no one there but her and one attendant, is a far cry from the party Fareeha had last night, although she did this, too, for them, so that their wedding could be sanctified, holy, the way her faith has taught her she ought to.

Still, she wishes she had thought to do something a little more romantic, too.

“I wasn’t expecting you to,” Fareeha says, brushing a piece of hair out of Angela’s face before guiding her up for another kiss, “And you didn’t have to, really. I’m just happy we’re here.”

Angela is, too, but “I’m sure you’d be happier if we continued, hmm?”

At that, Fareeha looks away, skin darkening in a blush, “I might be,” she admits, “But I’d be happy just to talk to you all night, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“That’s very sweet of you to say,” Angela says, “But I _did _like where we were headed. We just got sidetracked, that’s all.”

“Turn back around then,” Fareeha suggests, and adds, as Angela complies, “And this time I won’t write anything on you.”

“So you _were_ writing,” Angela is gratified to have that confirmed, at least. “What was it?”

“Nothing really,” Fareeha demurs, and after a moment of expectant silence as Angela settles back against her, she admits, “Just _my wife_ and _I love you _and other nonsense.”

That is hardly nonsense, Angela thinks, but more importantly, “That’s sweet of you,” says she. “I love you too, you know.”

“Of course,” Fareeha says, and then her hands are moving again, with more purpose than the last time, one hand teasing Angela tracing meaningless circles over the sensitive skin at the hollow of her hip, while the other plays with one breast, not enough to do more than to make Angela _want, _to make her arch her back into the touch and to try and lean into it. There is no more talking, now, with Fareeha’s mouth occupied with the pulse point at the corner of Angela’s jaw, kissing, and then sucking in a way that is just delightful.

Nice as it is to be_ able _to talk about these things, and to not have to worry about being too sexy, in front of one another, or too serious, getting to enjoy each other fully without worry of embarrassing themselves, this is nice, too, silence and wanting and enjoying the feeling of Fareeha’s hands on her body.

The first time she did this, she led Fareeha, coaxed her through it, talked about all the things she liked to do to herself, when she thought of Fareeha, late at night, when this was just something she did not even dare dream of, marriage something that, at that point in her life, she thought she would never have—and never truly wanted.

Much has changed, since then, and she need not guide Fareeha through this, need not beg, either, for Fareeha to hurry up, because Fareeha knows, intuitively, just how much teasing is enough, but still, she brings her hands to cover Fareeha’s, like they did the first time. Now, it is not to show her what to do, but so that she can hold Fareeha, have that other instance of connection.

(Emotionally, too, things are different. Angela thought she loved Fareeha then, but now what she feels is so much larger, so much deeper, so much _more_ than she could ever have imagined. Now, she knows more about Fareeha than she did then, knows what it is to fall asleep holding her, and to wake up beside her, knows all the little idiosyncrasies that make Fareeha the woman she is, has seen them firsthand, living together, and the more Angela learns about her love—and it always seems as if there is more to learn, somehow—the happier she is with her, and the more their love seems to grow. Fareeha is not perfect, like Angela imagined in those moments, but she is so much better than that, is willing to continually work to improve, to do better, to help the world more, and to compromise, when Angela needs her to, and that is better than mindless perfection, is a conscious choice to love one another that the both of them make ever day. A few years ago, Angela could never have imagined this, would not have _wanted _to compromise, let alone seen the beauty in it, wanted some sort of ideal love, and not the very real emotions that the two of them now share. No, this is better than what she fantasized about then, and better, too, than that reality. She loves Fareeha, the reality of her, more than she could love any ideal.)

Holding Fareeha feels right, her hands on her wife’s, and this feels right, too, in a different way, Fareeha’s fingers moving to tease at her nipples, and being able to feel beneath her that motion. No longer is Fareeha a ghost, a pair of imaginary hands that exist only in her imagination on long, lonely nights, but she is here, in the flesh, one hand warm beneath Angela’s and the other cool. Fareeha is here, and she is real, and she will be here for the rest of their lives.

It is lovely, it is intoxicating, it is a thought that falls completely from her mind as one of Fareeha’s hands pinches and pulls at a nipple, drawing a groan from the back of Angela’s throat.

Some things make it very hard to focus on romance, and Fareeha is so very, very good at making her forget herself.

(For the better—the Angela of five years ago would not have entertained thoughts of romance, would not have considered that she could be worthy of this, somehow, that she deserved someone like Fareeha in her life. She still is not certain that anyone deserves Fareeha, is good enough for her wife, but she is happy that Fareeha has chosen her, nonetheless, to spend her life with. It is good, that Fareeha is lovely enough that she forgets herself, because in so doing she became more open to new things, to trying something such as this, to setting aside her work for even a moment, to enjoy something better in life, even if it truly only will ever be for a moment, dedicated as the both of them are to their work.)

As always, Fareeha is taking things so _slowly_, and Angela likes it that way, she does, needs time for her body to catch up with her mind, when it comes to arousal, but she has been looking forward to this all day, to finally being able to touch—and be touched by—her wife, and she wishes Fareeha would move faster, arches her back and pushes her breasts into Fareeha’s hands more firmly, as if to say _hurry up, please._

She does not want to demand, not really—even if she does rather like to be made to beg, most nights—but there is a difference between savoring things and teasing, and Fareeha is approaching the line.

Fortunately, Fareeha obliges her, increases the pressure as one of her hands fondles Angela’s while the other, at long last, makes its way between Angela’s legs. She does not touch Angela’s clit, yet, teases at her folds, and Angela moves her hand to grip at Fareeha’s thigh in response to the teasing, feels her heart beat fast and a blush rise in her face when her clit throbs in time. 

“Fareeha,” says she, finally, “_Please_.” It is just asking, is not begging, not really, so she tells herself, and that is fine, is acceptable, and is more than enough to get a response from Fareeha, who moves to roll Angela’s clit between her fingers, not suddenly, exactly, but unexpectedly enough that Angela hisses in a breath and closes her eyes. Normally, she might be more patient, but there is something about the knowledge that this is their wedding day which spurs her on, makes her want to experience _everything_, Fareeha around her and in her and on top of her and—

—And that is getting a little ahead of herself, but she pictures it, then, Fareeha above her, mouth at Angela’s neck, fingers inside of her, the weight of her on top of Angela’s chest, and she inhales and all she smells is _Fareeha _and it is perfect, it is perfect, and oh she is close, already, was made ready by the teasing and the anticipation and the intoxicating thought that she is _Fareeha’s _now, is her wife, forever.

Without even thinking about it, she moves her hips in time with Fareeha touching her, and she feels the beginning of an orgasm growing, knows that if she focuses on it, she could come, now, already, and she hisses out, “I might—”

“I know,” Fareeha says, barely moving her mouth from Angela’s neck to say it, voice thicker, now, with her own arousal. “It’s okay. Come for me, habibti.”

And Angela freezes, then, for a moment, whole body tensing as she focuses on the feeling of Fareeha against her, each breath she takes in sync with Angela’s own, the softness of her body beneath Angela’s back and the warmth of it, in contrast to the strength of her arms and her hands and the cool metal of her prosthetic, and she thinks—Fareeha wants this. Fareeha wants _her_, forever, and when Fareeha’s finger flicks against her clit just right…

The tension shatters, and she comes, melts in Fareeha’s arms feels her mouth go slack and her head fall back against Fareeha and thinks, _Yes, this is perfect_, because in that moment, everything is. Her wife is holding her and she feels safer, then, than she ever has, warmer, more loved.

Forever. Fareeha loves her _forever_.

Another ten seconds, twenty, half a minute, and then it is over, and she is pliant in her wife’s arms, and suddenly aware of how sticky she is, sweat on her skin causing it to pull when she turns, again, to face Fareeha, and to kiss her, passionately.

This is not their usual after sex routine. Usually, Angela needs a minute to collect herself, and often, she retreats to do that, does not want to be touched for a minute, two, until her breathing is normal again and she feels less overwhelmed by the feeling, but right now, it is a good kind of overwhelming, the love she feels for her _wife_, and she wants nothing more than to be held, and to show Fareeha just what it is she is feeling.

“I love you, Fareeha,” she says, pulling back just far enough from her wife’s mouth to say that, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” each phrase punctuated with another kiss.

“I love you too,” Fareeha says, considerably less breathless than Angela, but no less passionate. “I’m so glad you’re my wife.”

“I’m happy to be your wife, too,” Angela says, and tries not to sound _too _sappy, even though that is how she is feeling. “And I’m so, so lucky.”

Were it up to Angela, she could stay like this for the rest of the night, kissing Fareeha and telling her how mush she loves her, but when she leans in again to kiss Fareeha, one of her knees accidentally bumps up against her wife’s center, and she feels how wet she is, notices Fareeha’s slight hitch in her breath in response.

“Would you like me to show you,” asks she, grinding her knee against Fareeha a bit harder this time, and deliberately, “Just how lucky I feel?”

“Please,” says Fareeha, and her tone is slightly strangled in a way that tells Angela that she would like _very much _for her to hurry up, yes.

“Lie back, then,” Angela insists, moving out of Fareeha’s way. “I want to better be able to see all of you.”

Fareeha is quick to comply, as ever, scoots far enough forward to lie on her back, and looks up at Angela, cocky grin on her face. “Like what you see?” asks she, as if she did not already know the answer to that.

“You know I do,” Angela says, but her mind is on other things as she does so, is mapping out the lines of Fareeha’s henna, every centimeter of it. “Just lie still, yes?”

She starts just above the prosthesis on Fareeha’s left arm, knows there is no sense in kissing it, since Fareeha cannot feel it, and is not comfortable when it is paid too much attention. A few centimeters above the metal, where the scarring is mostly smooth, the design begins, and Angela starts there, kisses at the inside of Fareeha’s elbow, up her strong upper arm, tries not to laugh when she feels Fareeha tense her bicep to show it off. In a few places, she applies pressure, adds her own mark to the henna on Fareeha’s skin, a small bruise from her kiss, then continues on atop Fareeha’s shoulder and along her collarbone.

Here, Fareeha’s voice bitches up a bit, and her breathing quickens, like it always does when Angela kisses the hollow of her throat, before Angela moves on. She follows the lines down Fareeha’s chest, to the spot between her breasts when her own name is written, and kisses around it, before moving back up and along Fareeha’s right collarbone, to the shoulder, to her arm, and all the way down her wrist. A whine of complaint comes from Fareeha, then, at the loss of stimulation and Angela moves one hand to her breasts to make it up to her, traces a spiral around one breast from the outside until she is at the nipple, reaches it, pinches, and repeats the motion. 

In the meantime, she kisses along Fareeha’s fingers, with one peck at the tip of each, before removing her hand and moving to sit between Fareeha’s legs, so she can trace the pattern there. She starts high on Fareeha’s right hip, just next to where her hand ended, then follows the lines down her thigh, to her knee, to her calf to her ankle. This time, when Fareeha complains about Angela leaving the sensitive skin of her thigh, Angela does nothing for her, other than to click a tongue at her impatience.

(It is not a chiding sound, not really, because she has no real room to criticize such, is more her way of recognizing that Fareeha wants something and signaling her to _wait_, because good things are coming, without breaking to say it in so many words. Fareeha knows she will make good on her promises.)

After making it to Fareeha’s right ankle, she makes her way to the left, and kisses up that leg, too, pays special attention to the scar on the inside of Fareeha’s lower thigh, and transitions from there to sucking bruises on the inside of her upper thigh, so close to where Fareeha wants to be touched but still not quite giving her what she wants.

For one minute, two, three, she continues like this, one hand holding Fareeha’s knee in the correct position and the other keeping her hip in place, stopping her from moving too much. When Fareeha starts to shift more, however, one hand restlessly grabbing at the sheets and the other finding its way to the back of Angela’s head, Angela gives in and decides to touch Fareeha where she wants to be, takes a moment to tuck her hair behind her ears before licking a broad stripe across Fareeha’s folds, stopping just short of her clit.

Like this, she proceeds, not giving too much pressure at first, and not fully touching Fareeha, just yet, as she enjoys the sounds her wife makes, follows the familiar tells until she knows that Fareeha is on the edge of what she considers to be a pleasant amount of teasing, and only then increasing the pressure of her tongue slightly, moving to suck her sensitive inner labia, and enjoying the sound that draws from Fareeha as she does so, the moan that comes from deep in her throat, and the way Fareeha’s hips jerk towards her face, and her hands tighten in Angela’s hair, as if to say _more, please. _

If she asked, Fareeha would beg, she knows she would. So often, Fareeha _has _done so, at Angela’s request, and it would be easy to make her do so again, but she does not think she will, not tonight, of all nights.

Tonight, she will give Fareeha everything she wants without her needing to ask. 

(After all, Fareeha has, quite literally, given her everything already, having given herself over to Angela in marriage, and moreover, gave Angela this opportunity at happiness, gave her the ability to see herself as someone worthy of love, and gave her the ability to explore this, what it is to be in love, and to love another woman, all without judgement, with patience, with grace. It is more than Angela could ever—would ever—ask for, and for her, Fareeha gave that freely. So the least she can do is please her wife in return, even if it is only like this, through sex.)

She moves her mouth over Fareeha’s clit, and is gentle, at first—knows that Fareeha both needs and likes less pressure than she herself does—traces her tongue around the outside, before moving one hand to move the hood out of the way and placing a kiss directly to the bud of it, and enjoying the way Fareeha reacts, hands suddenly tightening in her hair. On another night, she might draw this out further, might tease, but she thinks Fareeha has waited long enough, already, has been patient for her, waited through their whole wedding, and most of their reception, waited as both of them changed, and then saw to Angela first.

So now, she does not make her wife wait, wraps her lips around Fareeha’s clit and sucks, as hard as Fareeha usually tolerates, hears the strangled noise Fareeha makes in response, feels Fareeha’s thighs tighten around her head, and has to fight back the urge to smile, because that would ruin the sensation.

She keeps the pressure up, add true to form, Fareeha does not take long, comes not long after, one hand muffling herself and the other in Angela’s hair, tensing and untensing and holding her in place which she rides out the orgasm.

(For the most part, she keeps her hips still, and for that, Angela is grateful. More than once, the tip of her nose has collided uncomfortably hard with Fareeha’s pubic bone.)

It lasts for perhaps half a minute, and then her hands in Angela’s hair loosen, and Angela moves to prop herself up on one elbow, smirks up at Fareeha, whose hair is now a mess from having tossed her head, and who is now equally sweaty as she, breathing hard. “Enjoying yourself?” asks she, an echo of Fareeha’s earlier question, although she, too, knows the answer.

“Very much so,” Fareeha says. “If I knew that married life was going to start off this well, I would’ve proposed years ago.”

“You didn’t propose at all,” Angela points out. It was she, in fact, who asked Fareeha to marry her, although Fareeha discovered her plans too early, and spoiled the proposal she had originally intended. Fortunately, even a half assed _I was planning to ask you to marry me _in their bedroom on a Saturday morning was enough for Fareeha to accept.

Fareeha blinks, says, “You’re right,” and then, with a grin, “I know you’re already spoken for, Mrs. Ziegler, but if you ever find yourself single again, I don’t suppose you would consent to marry me?”

“I’m afraid,” says she, “That I have no intention of divorcing any time soon. I’m quite happy with my current wife.”

“Well, she’s a lucky woman,” Fareeha says, and her smile is so sweet, so touching, and Angela thinks that yes, if Fareeha had proposed to her, with a smile like that, she would have accepted in a heartbeat.

Fortunately, she does not have to do so, because they are already married, and to stop herself from getting too emotional about a fake proposal from the woman she is already married to, she changes the subject.

“She’s very lucky indeed,” says Angela, “And if she agrees not to cover her mouth this time, she can get lucky again.”

“I think I can do that,” Fareeha says.

“Good,” Angela says.

Although she would like to pick back up right where she left off, she imagines that Fareeha needs a minute to get back into the right frame of mind, again, so she starts off a bit more slowly, brings one hand to trace around Fareeha’s entrance, dips the tip of one finger in to see how wet she is, and, predictably, finds that Fareeha is absolutely _soaking_. 

(She always is, responds so well to stimulation. Angela envies her for it, sometimes, has to use lubricant for herself, now and then, and Fareeha never does. But most often, what Angela feels is not envy, just arousal, and happiness at the fact that Fareeha is clearly so affected by her touch.)

“Do you mind if I…?” she asks, not wanting to assume that because Fareeha is still wet form earlier she is ready now.

A little laugh from Fareeha, “You know you don’t have to ask.”

(Angela rather thinks that she _does_, but that is an answer in and of itself, and so she will not argue the point. Fareeha always asks before touching her, and listens when she says _no _or _not now _or _I’m tired_, and so she thinks that it is not an important enough issue to bring up.)

In response, Angela only hums, and slides one finger in, and, when that proves easy, adds a second. She starts slowly, lets Fareeha set the pace with the movement of her hips. Unlike Angela, Fareeha does not seem to get oversensitive after an orgasm, and that is useful, now, as she quickly falls back into a nice rhythm.

Only a minute or two passes before Fareeha is making a small pleased noise as she meets Angela on each thrust, hardly more than a breath of air, but still, it is proof that she was listening to Angela earlier, is following her request to not be silent.

Fareeha is not, naturally, a very vocal lover, Angela knows, is used to keeping quiet after far too long spent living in barracks, but she has such a beautiful voice, and Angela always thinks it is a shame to not be able to hear it. To reward Fareeha, therefore, for having listened to her, Angela brings her mouth back down to Fareeha’s folds, traces her tongue along them in a zigzagging pattern, giving Fareeha the pressure that she knows she wants. In response, Fareeha makes a small pleased noise, not quite a groan, but close to it, and Angela increases the pressure again.

(Hearing Fareeha enjoy herself is nice for other reasons, too, besides that she makes such pretty noises—it is reassuring, for Angela, to know that she is doing well. She worries, sometimes, that she could not possibly make Fareeha as happy as Fareeha makes her, so even little things like this, things that are not even actually _praise, _as such, are very reassuring. In this moment, at least, all she wants is for her wife to be happy, and it certainly seems like she is.)

Ready as Fareeha already is, it does not take long for her to get louder, more demanding, for the rhythm of her movements to increase and for her to urge Angela to pay attention to her clit. This time, however, Angela does not give in immediately, waits a bit longer, because she knows Fareeha _can_, and because she knows, too, that if she does, it will be better, that Fareeha will be louder for her, and that her orgasm will be stronger, when it finally does come.

Earlier, she was obliging because Fareeha had waited long enough, had been looking forward to this all day, but now? Now, she takes her time, really allows herself to savor this, to enjoy the noises Fareeha makes, the way that she shivers under Angela’s touch, and the taste of her, too, not sweet, quite, but nonetheless pleasant on Angela’s tongue. Before they did this, she did not know how much she would enjoy it, never liked the taste of herself on someone else’s lips, but she really, _truly _does like it, loves to go down on her wife.

So she takes her time, enjoys the moment, not for Fareeha, but for herself, enjoys the growing frustration and _want _in Fareeha’s voice, because this is never enough for her, just penetration and light stimulation elsewhere. If she wanted to, she knows, she could make Fareeha come, it would be as easy as paying attention to her clit for just a few moments. But she will not, does not. Not yet.

Instead, she removes her fingers for a moment and teases her tongue inside of Fareeha, just to get a better taste of her, and to enjoy the way Fareeha squirms in response, tries to get _more _out of the touch than Angela is offering her. That will not happen, though, because as soon as Fareeha whines, Angela replaces her tongue with her fingers, again, and moves her mouth back to Fareeha’s folds, starts to lick around the outermost edge, gets a hair caught in her mouth, and decides that perhaps she was better off focusing on Fareeha’s inner labia instead, goes back to putting her attention there, sucking at her folds and enjoying the texture of them in her mouth, the sounds that Fareeha makes when she does so. It is lovely, is perfect, is everything she wants until—

“More, Angela,” Fareeha requests.

“Please?” Angela suggests, because she likes to hear Fareeha ask. It is not an order, of course. If Fareeha does not want to ask for it, then she will do what her wife wants anyway, but it so nice to hear her say—

“Please,” and again, “Please, please, please.”

She does not have to ask again. Before the final please has finished leaving her mouth, Angela is back at her clit, again, tongue flicking over it in a way that causes Fareeha to trial off in a high-pitched noise of pleasure.

Fareeha is close, Angela knows, would know even if her wife were not being loud, can feel it in the way that her hips are stuttering, and her walls are tightening around Angela’s fingers, can tell from the tension in her body and the way her breathing has shifted. 

If she thought there was time enough for that, Angela would tell Fareeha to come for her, but she thinks that is going to happen, anyway, and Fareeha will enjoy her orgasm more if she keeps her mouth where it is, teasing at her clit. A moment passes, two, three, and then Angela is proven correct as Fareeha comes against her, stronger this time, one leg kicking with the force of it, and hips moving considerably more than they did before.

It lasts, and it lasts, and Angela keeps up her pace during it, trying to sustain the orgasm for as long as possible so that Fareeha gets the maximum enjoyment from this, and only when Fareeha brings a hand down to gently ease her off does she look up.

When she does so, she makes a show of wiping her mouth, for Fareeha to see, before then taking a decidedly less sexy moment to stretch her jaw, feeling it let out a very satisfying _click _before the ache in it eases.

(To say that Fareeha was alarmed the first time that happened would be an understatement. She was, in fact, more than, was very concerned for Angela’s health. Fortunately, she trusts Angela’s medical opinion enough that when Angela laughed it off, waved it away as nothing too serious, they were able to avoid consulting another medic on base about it, and subjecting themselves to the indignity of admitting to a sex injury. Still, it was enough to derail the rest of their plans for the night.)

“You good?” Fareeha asks.

“Mm-hmm,” Angela confirms, only a bit sore from having kept her mouth at that angle for so long. “I think that’s enough of that, but I’m fine.”

“It’s my turn to repay the favor, anyway,” Fareeha insists, and although Angela would be lying if she said she were not aroused, again, if she tried to deny that she finds that eating Fareeha out to be very stimulating, and more than enough to get her ready, she does not want to do that, just yet.

“Could I just kiss you for a minute?” she asks instead, because sex is all well and good, and she _would _like to come again, she has decided, realized from the throbbing between her own legs as she ate Fareeha out for the second time, but she knows that she _is _going to fall asleep after she comes again, is tired, by this point, and she does not want their night to end just yet, wants a bit more time to just enjoy Fareeha’s company, wants as much time as possible to just enjoy the fact that she has a _wife, _wants to stretch this out for as long as possible, because this is their wedding night, the only one they will ever have, and she wants it to last.

“Of course,” Fareeha says, props herself up on her elbows and tilts her head at such an angle that Angela can easily lean forwards and kiss her.

She does so, moves to straddle one of Fareeha’s thighs in the process. 

One kiss leads to another, a third, a fourth. When they start, the kisses are slow, and deep, with no real intent behind them other than to express affection, and for the enjoyment of the moment, but then gradually one of Fareeha’s hands makes its way down to Angela’s ass, and one of Angela’s reaches back down to between Fareeha’s legs, just teasing at her, for the time being.

Fareeha breaks the kiss, looks surprised, “Again?”

“Is that not good?” Angela asks. “I can stop if—”

“No,” says Fareeha, “No I definitely don’t object but—I know it’s our wedding night and all, but you don’t have to. I know you’re tired.”

A little pleased hum precedes her words, “I am, yes, but I want to—like this. Face to face.”

“Ah,” Fareeha says, “Right. That is… nice.”

Nice is an understatement, Angela thinks, but she does not disagree, it is _nice _to be with Fareeha like this, nice to be able to take her time with her, to know that no one expects anything of them before they leave, tomorrow afternoon, for their honeymoon, nice to know that backup arrangements have already been made, so they will not be needed, and they can really, truly take their time for once.

(So much of their lives is spent always on alert, always aware that someone, somewhere, might need them at any moment, and if that is the case, then they will have to leave, then and there, will have to be ready to jump on a plane and into danger. That is fine, really, is all well and good, but it does take a certain toll on a person, the knowledge that their time is never their own, the feeling that it is always, always borrowed, and at any moment they might have to risk their lives. For now, however, they are, for the first time in their relationship, injury recovery periods notwithstanding, completely relieved of all duties, and free to be with one another. It is a wonderful thing, and such a relief, to have in these first hours as a couple that freedom, that ability to finally relax after so long.)

So Angela is not in any rush, really, as she idly teases Fareeha, and she is not in any rush, either, when she grinds down on Fareeha’s thigh, is simply going where the moment takes her, enjoying the knowledge that for once, she does not need to worry about interruption, and having already satisfied the both of them, is in no hurry for this to end anytime soon.

Or, she is not in any rush when she begins. But something about the way Fareeha draws in a breath, sharp, when Angela grinds down on her, the way she pulls back from the kiss for a moment, to bring a hand down, to feel how wet Angela is and hold that wetness up to the light, only to then stutter when she tries to make a comment, “So um, you’re really enjoy—I mean, not to say you’re not always enjoying yourself, but—you’re not usually this, uh…” something about that moment makes Angela think that maybe she might want to hurry things up, just a bit, that perhaps she _is _feeling a little impatient, after all, wants to speed along slightly the natural progression of events.

(It is more cute than sexy, but still, something about it, about how much _Fareeha _is affected by it, is nonetheless arousing for Angela, who grinds down harder in response, slips her fingers back into Fareeha as she does so.)

“Mm-hmm,” says she, laziness of her voice belying her intent.

Still, she keeps things slow as she leans in to give Fareeha another kiss, slow and deep. The same can be said of the movement of her fingers, and her hips. They do not need to rush this, now, can have a moment just to enjoy one another, and so they do.

They move slowly, letting things build that way, too. Her arousal rises like a tide within her, rather than coming sudden, and strong. It builds, and it builds, but she does nothing to hasten that, focuses instead on how nice Fareeha’s mouth feels on hers, how soft her lips are, and how warm her skin is. She does her best not to react even when Fareeha rocks a thigh up into her, lets Fareeha swallow the resulting moan, and leaves it at that, does not ask for more, or rock harder against her, and does not give Fareeha what she needs yet, either, to push her over the edge, keeps her fingers moving, and—somewhat awkwardly—with her spare hand guides Fareeha’s palm to her own breast, a silent request for her to touch herself.

If Angela pulled back, she knows the view would be better, that she could watch Fareeha respond, watch her toy with herself and try to get something _more _from Angela’s fingers, but instead, she keeps moving, keeps her focus on the places there their bodies are touching, brings her knee up behind her hand to brace it and add force to her strokes, and otherwise does nothing new. There is no reason to be hasty, is nothing but the feeling of Fareeha’s mouth on hers, her own whines bleeding into Angela’s, and her skin so warm beneath and around Angela’s own. It is perfect, it is. 

It is perfect, and it is slow, and it is easy, unlike so many of the other things in their lives, and so, it cannot last forever.

While it does, Angela enjoys it, but although she is not trying to hasten her orgasm, she knows it is coming, nonetheless, and thinks it wiser to focus on the feeling than to miss it, and not experience fully the sensation. She takes her mouth off Fareeha’s, buries her face in Fareeha’s neck, focuses on the feeling inside herself, and brings a thumb down on Fareeha’s clit.

Beneath her, Fareeha responds quickly, and the motion is easy to keep up, rolling side to side, while the rest of her focus is on the feeling between her own legs, on rolling her hips harder, grinding them down with more force, really _feeling _it, and the growing coil in the pit of her stomach that accompanies it. She is close, so close, and then beneath her, Fareeha is coming, and it is probably a coincidence, but the feeling of that, the tightening of her body around Angela and the slight movement of her thigh in response, muscles in her body tensing and untensing, is enough to make Angela come, several seconds later.

It is not _quite _simultaneous, which is unsurprising, given that they never seem to manage that exactly right, even when they are trying, but it is close to it, and that is the last coherent thought she has, before she comes, how close they were to actually achieving that, for once.

And then her orgasm overtakes her and her mind goes blank, is focused entirely on the pleasure for a few moments, as she sits there in Fareeha’s lap and shudders through it, face still buried in Fareeha’s neck.

When it is over, she realizes just how much Fareeha’s hair is tickling, and has to pull back before it makes her sneeze. 

“Sorry,” says she, “I think I might—”

She turns her head, waits a few seconds, and—

—"Are you going to be sick?” Fareeha asks, concern in her voice, “Because if you are, I’d really prefer it wasn’t here, you know I’ll—”

“I thought I was going to sneeze,” she is quick to reassure, “That’s all.” 

(She knows already what Fareeha was going to say—that the smell of someone being sick always makes her sick, too. Despite having a stronger stomach than her wife, Angela does not want to think too long about it.)

“Oh,” Fareeha says, “Good. I was going to say, it didn’t _seem _like you drank that much.”

“I think if I were that drunk,” Angela says, “You would’ve noticed quite a while ago. But no, I hardly drank anything. I know you don’t like to try and have sex after I do.”

A small frown from Fareeha, “Sorry.”

“It’s nothing to apologize for—and it’s probably for the best, anyway. It’s easier to enjoy this sober.”

“That’s true,” Fareeha agrees, as if she had any experience whatsoever with drinking, and then asks, “Would you like to enjoy it again?”

Angela blinks in surprise, “I already came twice.”

“Yes,” Fareeha agrees, “And I did three times, so it’s only fair that I offer…”

Normally, Angela would say no, because she knows it will take a while, and normally, if she were this tired, she would not want to deal with that hassle, but now… now she considers it.

“Alright,” says she, after a moment’s consideration, “I’d like to try but—only if you promise not to be mad if I fall asleep.” 

(If she did, it would not be the first time.) 

“I promise not to be,” Fareeha agrees, “Now you lie back, this time.”

Probably, this is a bad idea, Angela thinks, but she complies, moves over to her side of the bed and puts her head on the pillow, tries not to get too comfy when Fareeha settles between her legs. 

“You won’t mind if I skip the foreplay?” Fareeha asks, as if everything they have just done is not sufficient foreplay.

“Not at all,” Angela says, because she _is _still a bit aroused, after her last orgasm, did not let it fade completely yet, and so it is not overwhelming, when Fareeha’s mouth is on her, suddenly.

What is overwhelming is this: Fareeha’s eyes on hers, and the love that is evident in them.

What is overwhelming is this: that Fareeha reaches a hand out to hold hers as she does this, and her grip is firm, but still on the right side of gentle, a reminder that she is here, with Angela, now.

What is overwhelming is this: how _close _she feels how quickly. It is a rare thing for her, and she thinks that she must be exceptionally lucky, for today to be one of those days when she is well rested enough, and in the right mindset, for this to be a feasible thing.

But the orgasm does not come, no matter how near it feels, builds and builds and fades, once, twice, thrice, until she is shaking, is nearly crying, until her muscles are tired from bearing down, trying to reach it, only to feel it slip away.

It would be frustrating, normally, would be embarrassing, with anyone but Fareeha, but this has happened before, and Fareeha has never been angry at her for it, has never made her feel that it is anything to be ashamed of, and she is patient, with this, even if she is not a naturally patient person.

Angela just needs to focus, to take a deep breath, and recenter herself. She can, she can, she _can. _If only she focuses on something, she can do it—on the beating of her heart, or the way her skin feels like it is burning in the cold fall air, or the aching between her legs, how close she is. Surely, if she fixates on those things, or if she plays with herself, it will be enough. Surely, if she only thinks of all the other lovely things she has felt tonight, Fareeha’s mouth on her own, or on her neck, Fareeha’s thigh beneath her, or fingers between her legs, surely one of them will be enough to tip her over.

No. Another failed attempt, and another, she feels the orgasm rise again and fade away.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I’m trying and I’m close I just can’t—"

“It’s okay,” Fareeha says, “I love you. It’s okay.”

_Oh._

“Say it again,” says she.

“I love you?” Fareeha says, and it’s a question, but when Angela sobs out a _yes_, she says it again more surely and that—

Angela thinks it is enough, because she feels so safe in that moment, so loved, so perfectly protected, and she can finally let go, like that, does so with a gasp, comes _hard_, sees stars, and when she is done, Fareeha has moved up the bed and is sitting next to her, glass of water in her hand.

She blinks, at that. Water? When did Fareeha—

At some point, she must have made a noise, because Fareeha turns to her, and laughs, “Hello sleeping beauty,” says she.

“What?” Angela was not asleep, she just—

“You fell asleep.”

“I did not!” she insists, although, as she protests she realizes that her mouth is unusually dry in a very _familiar _way, and when she glances at the clock it has been nearly an hour. “Oh my God,” she groans, “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” Fareeha insists, “It was pretty funny, actually. You said something about how it was _lovely_ but also _more than enough_, and before I could even reply you were unconscious.”

“I don’t even remember,” Angela admits, but then, that makes sense, because people rarely remember the five minutes immediately before falling asleep, and that certainly would have fallen within that time period. “For what it was worth, I _do _remember the orgasm, and that was, in fact, very nice.”

“Thank you,” Fareeha preens. “It’s not just anyone who can say that they put their wife to sleep on their wedding night and have that be a good thing.”

Angela rolls her eyes, at that. “Well it was,” says she, “I felt so safe, and loved. Maybe a little _too _safe, since I fell asleep, but…”

“I love you, too,” Fareeha says, laughing again. “Even if you did fall asleep on me.”

“Shush!” Angela insists. And then, “But yes, I do love you. So very, very much.”

“I know,” Fareeha says, “Mrs. Doctor Ziegler.”

“I’m never living that down, am I?” asks she.

“No,” Fareeha says, “Not ever. You’re stuck with me now, you know?”

Angela knows, and she is glad for it, is so grateful to be tied to a person like Fareeha, who makes her feel safe, who has such a good sense of humor, whom she loves so very deeply.

Perhaps this was not what she was envisioning, when she thought about what a wedding ought to be, the jokes, and the exhaustion, and the embarrassment. Perhaps it is not how wedding nights are _meant _to go, was not the sexiest of their nights together, or even the most passionate. Perhaps it is not at all what other people might want, when they think of their own wedding night. None of that matters, however.

To Angela, it is perfect, is so very right for the two of them.

And that is what matters. The two of them, here, together. Happy, and whole, and one.

It is their wedding night, and it is not what Angela imagined—it is better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall i busted my ass and wrote this all TODAY and managed to fit it in despite dnd/haircut/my gf making me cry for like two hrs. u better appreciate this!!! 16k in one day is a lot
> 
> but seriously, hope yalls day was good. mine was... a rollercoaster. i love my friends so much, and we will leave it at that.
> 
> notes:  
\- hava nagila, sometimes called the hora (thats the dance!), a song that plays at jewish weddings, in which we hoist the couple up on a chair and dance around them. yeah  
\- henna. yes its traditional before arab weddings, too, but unlike indian henna, there arent specific meanings to most of the designs. and yes, in egypt its fashionable to have ur spouses name hennad on ur boob above ur heart, and to have it go up all the way to... ur hips, we shall say  
\- mikvah, a ritual bath, which one takes and then recites a prayer during before her wedding. and also other times that arent so relevant here  
\- yeah, they kept their last names, bc theyve accomplished so much under them already. no hyphens, either. keeping ur last name is traditional in arab culture anyway, so fareeha always planned on it, and angela is glad
> 
> sorry if the notes are missing anything, i wrote this kinda rushed, will update if anyone has questions!
> 
> please let me know ur thoughts!!! and if u wanna wish me a happy bday im @euhemeria on twitter, lmao


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess whos back, back again... this time for mariels bday! happy bday queen, sorry its a week late but u know. well u know my health bullshit. ANYWAY

Being married is, for Fareeha, an easy transition. In some ways, in fact, it may be _too _easy. It does not feel particularly special, the first day after their wedding, waking up to her wife curled up around her, does not seem any different, the way Angela nuzzles into her chest sleepily and asks if they can stay in bed for just a few more minutes, tells her she is comfortable, is warm, is soft and safe both at once. Already, she is used to this, for they have done it hundreds of times before. Before Angela ever proposed, Fareeha thought of them as married—or the nearest possible thing—has thought of Angela as her life partner, her _wife, _for more than a year now. So perhaps it is unsurprising that the morning after their wedding feels so very ordinary.

And that is not a bad thing. Fareeha likes their routine, likes to know that something in her life is certain, despite the inherently unpredictable nature of their work, and, if she is honest with herself, finds it reassuring, too, because a part of her will always worry about the people in her life leaving her, after what happened with her mother. It is a nice thing, therefore, a comforting one, to know that when she and Angela wake in the morning, things will always be more or less the same.

They have a routine, the two of them. First is the alarm—Fareeha’s phone, always, is the one to go off—which Fareeha silences, and then there are a few minutes of bargaining, in which Angela, aware thanks to the alarm that this cannot be an emergency, will ask if they can just lie in bed this morning, because she is so happy just to hold Fareeha in her arms. Sweet as that sentiment may be, inevitably, after five to ten minutes, the two of them will get up, and go for a run, side by side. Angela will finish first, will go back to their quarters and shower while Fareeha finishes up her own run, such that breakfast is ready by the time Fareeha is done cleaning herself off and dressing, and they can eat it together.

Last night, they were married, but today is no exception. They will do things as they always do them, because it is better for the both of them to stick to a routine, is easier, in the long term.

So they do. Fareeha wakes her wife, and they run together, for as long as Angela can keep up, and then, some fifty minutes later, they join one another for breakfast. They do not talk much, as they eat, because Fareeha is the sort of person who is always nervous on the day she is traveling, and Angela is clearly still tired from the day before.

Weddings, as it turns out, are exhausting things. Perhaps this should not be surprising—after all, there are so many expectations, so many things which can go wrong, so many people needing or wanting their attention—but somehow, it is. Fareeha is happy they had a wedding, a formal one, not the courthouse appointment she knows Angela might have preferred, because the ceremony itself mattered to her, as a way of showing everyone how much she cares about her wife. A courthouse wedding would have robbed her of that opportunity, to show the people she cares about most _this is my wife, _and to give her mother’s side of the family a choice, to accept the invitation, and with it accept that this is whom she is marrying, or to decline it, and make known where they stand. This way they got to see how much she loves Angela, how much Angela loves her, and she knows it did not change anyone’s mind, seeing that, for if they came then they had already decided to support her, but it felt good, anyway, felt important. People need to know that she loves her wife as much as any of them love their spouses, and that Angela feels the same for her, even if the two of them rarely engage in public displays of affection, for the sake of privacy.

(Or something close to privacy. _Tznius_, Angela called it once, when Fareeha asked why she was so reluctant to so much as hold hands around their friends. According to what Fareeha has read on the subject, it means modesty, but to hear her wife talk about it, it is more a sense of dignity and privacy. There is no need, in Angela’s mind, for them to be too open in public, because it is known already that they love one another, and to do more would be rude, would be both an invasion of their privacy, a betrayal of their bond, to show it so to other people, and a flaunting of their relationship. Fareeha, of course, would not mind being flaunted, but they have had this argument, the two of them, and in the end, she cannot make Angela, who grew up with this concept, comfortable with anything more than the occasional kiss on the cheek, in front of their friends, and that is how things will stay, for the time being. In time, perhaps, Angela will feel comfortable with more, and then Fareeha will take full advantage of that, but for now, she is happy not to push, not to press. They had their wedding, and if there was ever any question about the two of them, how much they love one another, there cannot be now. Everyone has seen their love for one another, has borne witness to it and been a part of it.)

Maybe, Fareeha thinks, feeling more tired than usual at the final debriefing before she and Angela leave town, her wife had a point about weddings. She is exhausted, and thinks she would be even if they had gone straight to bed, last night—and maybe, if they had a courthouse wedding, they could have escaped the friendly teasing they are subject to now, about said exhaustion. At least she gets to watch Angela blush from her ears all the way down to her neck when Jesse elbows her and says something about how the two of them _Should__’ve saved some energy for _this _debriefing, huh?_

Somehow, it never occurs to her that rather than avoiding this embarrassment by having had a courthouse wedding, they could also have just skipped this meeting. Such a thought is outside of the realm of possibility for them—they planned their honeymoon such that they would not miss either this weekly debrief or the next. They are, both of them, creatures of habit, and it is one of the things Fareeha loves most about her wife, that Angela, too, understands how important their work is, how important it is not to set it aside, even for something like this, a love that has so improved her life.

But when the meeting ends, they do break routine then, go together back to their quarters, rather than to their respective offices, do not linger to discuss further any issues with anyone, out of eagerness on Fareeha’s part, and fear of more teasing on Angela’s. 

This, too, is different: when they enter their quarters, Angela spins around to press Fareeha against the wall and kiss her, deeply. When she pulls back, slightly breathless, Fareeha asks, “What was that for?”

And Angela, not usually a romantic, says simply, “Because you’re my _wife_.”

To think of Angela as her wife—that is not new. They have been all but married for well over a year, now. But to be able to call her as much is still new, and special, and so Fareeha understands why Angela sounds so giddy saying it, responds in kind, again, with “I’m your wife! And you’re mine.”

Already, they had this conversation, last night and again first thing this morning, as they were just about to start their run, but still—it bears repeating. The novelty has not worn off, yet, and Fareeha hopes it will not for quite some time.

She knows, of course, that she will never take this for granted, her relationship with Angela, even when the newness has long faded, is certain of that. Yes, it might be argued that everyone is so certain, on their wedding day, but for herself Fareeha considers this to be a fact, immutable. She is so, so lucky to have Angela in her life, she knows, so fortunate to find someone who so mirrors her, whose wants and needs and dreams overlap so well with her own, whose idiosyncrasies are mostly endearing, rather than annoying, even after several years, and at the worst at least _understandable_, and who takes all of Fareeha’s own foibles in stride. Things have not been easy, for them, have not been perfect. It took time for them to come to realize that they loved one another, longer still to accept that, and to adjust to it, to learn to accept what it means to share one’s life with another person, but they have both of them worked hard to be here, to become more open people for one another, and to learn to accept love, and happiness, to dream of a world where something like this is possible, and their work, their goals, do not have to be sacrificed for it. It took time, and yet, here they are—wives.

So she cannot imagine that it will ever be something she does not see as special, in some way, loving Angela, for she knows the value of that love, knows well what it took for the both of them to reach this point.

(In a way, she is wrong—eventually, loving Angela will become a habit. But she is right, too, in that habitually loving another person is not the same as taking them for granted; it is simply that, after a few years, it is a part of her routine, to say that she loves Angela, to buy chocolates for her wife, every now and again, just because, to find herself surprised at the end of a long day by comfort food and flowers Angela picked from their garden, just for her. To be loved will become a part of the comforting familiar, and already is. When Fareeha says she loves routine, she means that she loves Angela, loves to be with her in the life that they have built together, even if she does not yet know that. One day, she will, and she will realize that every act of keeping that routine has been an expression of love, in and of itself. There does not need to be the excitement, the breathlessness of new love or recent nuptials for her wife and she to be surrounded by their love for one another, day in and day out.)

The future is not, however, very much on Fareeha’s mind, at the moment. In their own way, weddings are actually very much about the present, about how much two people love one another in _that _moment, no matter how much their guests might talk about what they were like before this love, and despite their own dreams of the future. For now, what matters is not what will become of their love, but the fact that, in this moment, neither of them can imagine what it would be to love someone else as they love one another, neither can imagine that they will ever want something besides this, not in this lifetime. Ultimately, weddings are about that present, and so Fareeha is, for now, thinking only of what needs to be done then, to reach their flight on time.

Unfortunately, that does not involve lingering and kissing Angela for a while longer. Their flight is trans-Atlantic, and they do not, therefore, want to miss it, and to have to reschedule. It would be a terribly inauspicious beginning to a honeymoon, and therefore to a marriage.

(Not that Fareeha puts much stock into such things. After all, she and Angela never really talked all that much up until Fareeha had her first very near miss in the field. If ever there were an inauspicious beginning to a love, it would be that, and thus far, things have only improved.)

Fortunately, they make their flight. They are not even almost late, in truth, because Angela is the sort of person for whom _punctual _means _early_, and Fareeha is more than happy to go along with that, if it means that they both find the experience less stressful, in the end. For the better part of an hour, they have nothing to do but sit at the gate and tell one another terrible jokes, and although Fareeha might have preferred to linger in their quarters, to have spent more time with _only _Angela, not worrying about censoring herself around others who might overhear—or see—them, she still enjoys this time with her wife, and knows that this is the better option, in the end.

For this she is rewarded by the fact that Angela is calm enough, when they take off, to very uncharacteristically kiss her, despite the fact that they are in public. The kiss is brief, just a peck on the lips, more giddy than passionate, but the feeling of Angela’s lips on hers seems to linger far longer.

Which is a good thing—it is a very long flight, even if they both use it to catch up on sleep. That was, of course, the idea. By vacationing far enough away that they cannot easily fly back to base, neither of them will realistically be able to return in time for any incident that might arise, no matter the severity, and their coworkers will be far less tempted to call them. Such is not something that either of them would normally consider advantageous, is a serious shift in their usual priorities, but they will only be married once, and Fareeha is happy that they could both agree that _one week _is very little in the face of their lifetimes of service. For once, the two of them can be selfish, even if they are still returning in time for the next week’s debriefing. Already, they know that their work will take from them many other days, and agree such is tolerable, in their relationship, is even right and just, for their love for one another is not more important than their desire to help the world, and they said, before they were even together, that for the both of them work would always come before love, and this does not change that. They will miss birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays, spend them apart or in a disaster zone, and that is acceptable to them, for they believe in the work that they do. But all of those things happen annually, and they will only ever have one honeymoon, so they have decided to make this one count.

That is not, Fareeha thinks, either a compromise or a contradiction, merely a prioritization. It is nice, to be able to put themselves first, for once, is something Fareeha was pleasantly surprised to discover she did not have to argue for, not this time, because Angela, too, agreed, that having a honeymoon would be good for them.

Of course, it is still Fareeha, of the two of them, who cares more about romantic gestures and the like, is still she who delights in such traditions as an expression of her affection, rather than as a script to be followed, in the way that Angela does. So it is to Fareeha that it fell to plan the honeymoon, while Angela handled the altogether more practical matter of ensuring that their marriage was recognized in Switzerland, Egypt, and Canada, that all of their paperwork and accounts were in order—and so it is only Fareeha who is still worrying, on the flight, whether or not things will go well.

They will, of course they will, because she has ensured everything was in order, made sure her father checked to make sure the little cabin their family owns was in good shape for the two of them to visit, gave him a list of things to procure before he flew in for their wedding, and to drop off at the cabin, and it was she who arranged for the delivery of flowers to the back door of the cabin just an hour before they are set to arrive, so whether the September afternoon is unseasonably cool or unseasonably warm, they will still be in good shape for her to present to Angela in the evening, as a surprise.

As with everything she does, Fareeha has handled this matter with care, because she knows that she only has _one _chance, has only this one honeymoon, and she wants for things to be perfect, to show Angela how much she loves her, how much she cares, in ways that she cannot do in the day to day. Logically, she knows that Angela will not be disappointed, even if for some reason things go wrong, knows that her wife loves her, no matter what, but she knows, too, that Angela was not the least bit involved in the planning of this because _I know anything you decide will be lovely, Fareeha, _and that trust has put a certain measure of pressure on Fareeha to succeed, to plan the perfect honeymoon—or, perfect for the two of them at least.

Hopefully, this will be all of that, and more. They will be far from other people, enough so that they will have all their time only to themselves, and can even go out without fear of being seen, can enjoy hiking or bird-watching or whatever else Angela might want to do. The weather should be mild enough, for Angela, this time of year, and if it is hot, they can stay inside where it is cool. There is no television, or anything of the sort, at the cabin, either, and so there will be little temptation for the two of them to watch the news, and worry about all the things in the world which, for this week at least, they cannot fix. 

Other details, too, she has taken care of, less important ones, such as hiding in their checked bags certain sex toys, with which to surprise her wife, and that initial delivery of flowers. Everything they might need, they will have, and no one will disturb them.

That last part is all that matters to Angela, she knows. Her wife, when they initially discussed whether to take a honeymoon or not, admitted that she would be more than content to just stay in their quarters for a week, but Fareeha knows that such would be incredibly impractical. For better or for worse, their coworkers are not at all shy about interrupting them when a medical emergency arises, and asking Angela to deal with it. In theory, that is a good thing, because they need to know that they can get medical care whenever they need it—but in practice, it is often inconvenient. More than once, a lovely romantic evening has been ruined because someone forgot to pull their punches when sparring, and Fareeha does not want to contend with that on her honeymoon.

In fact, she does not want to contend with it at all, even if she accepts that it is important. Angela clearly feels the same, given that she announced, in jest, that following her wedding she would only be on call between the hours of 07:00 and 22:00. Fareeha is certain that such will be honored for the first week they are back, at most, and although she does not begrudge her teammates their desire to stay in good health, she wishes they had better timing.

(As it turns out, they will not even last through the first night of Fareeha and Angela’s return without there being an incident. In Jesse’s defense, at least, he is very apologetic, and certainly did not schedule having appendicitis.)

So Fareeha wants for things to go well, just this once, wants for things to go right. Before boarding the flight, she was so worried about her wedding that she did not have time to stress about this, did not have enough energy to worry about another thing, too, but now that they are on their way, her wife is sleeping peacefully, and she is… not. She is tired, of course, from their wedding and their wedding night both, and could certainly use the rest, but she is anxious, too, because to her, this is not just a vacation, not just some time alone with one another to have sex—or just talk—uninterrupted, not just an excuse to sleep in, and to lounge about all day, but is a way of her showing Angela just how much she loves her, and that is something which she really, truly _needs _to go right.

Because she loves Angela more than she can say, more than either of them can. She loves Angela and she does her best to show it, as often as she can, in all the ways that she can, and still she knows that will never be enough to truly communicate the depth of her feeling, the breadth of it. She loves her wife always, in every way, even when they are angry with one another—which, fortunately, is rare.

To ensure that Angela would never again have to worry about being hungry, like she was as a child, growing up during the Crisis, Fareeha planted her a garden, so now her wife knows they will always have access to food, should they need it. When she worried about Angela, her safety on missions, she taught Angela to swim, finally, alone where no one would need to know that she did not already know how, and now both of them are a little calmer, when they go to Rialto, to Ilios, to a thousand different places where once they would have worried about the danger there, that Angela might fall in the water. Actions are more lasting than declarations, leave a deeper impression, are the only things that she knows her wife will always have, even if something happens to her. Memories fade, and gifts can be lost, but other things cannot be taken.

It is unlike her to worry so much about something like this, something comparatively less lasting, and which she can no longer change besides, the plans having been made already, and Angela must notice, because at some point she wakes from her sleep, slides a hand into Fareeha’s and says, so quietly barely even Fareeha hears it, sitting right next to you, “I love you,” and then, with a squeeze of her hand, adds, “You know that, yes?”

“Yes,” Fareeha replies, because she does, of course she does. Angela loves her, and she may never say things like _I__’ll always love you_, or, _I love you no matter what, _she knows that her wife’s love is as unconditional a love as she can imagine, is complete in the moment, and that is what matters, in the end.

“Good,” Angela tells her, “I just wanted to remind you,” and then, saying nothing more, she settles back into her seat and goes, again, to sleep.

Somewhat reassured by this, Fareeha decides to do her best to sleep, too. As she so often reminds Angela, there is no sense in worrying about that which one cannot change.

When she wakes, at touchdown, she is too distracted to worry, is focused only on getting off the plane, through customs, and to their rental vehicle. Having something to do, she always worries less—it is the waiting that makes her anxious, the powerlessness. Once she is again moving and able to work towards a goal, everything is fine. There is no problem with their passports, their luggage is not lost, and Angela has remembered, this time, that weed is no longer legal in Canada, and has not tried to fly with any.

(Briefly, Fareeha considered asking her father if he could put her in contact with anyone so that she could buy weed in order to surprise her wife, but, ultimately, she decided that she would not trust either her father or herself with such a task. Neither of them knows enough about the matter to be able to avoid being scammed and, frankly, she cannot bring herself to ask her father to commit a crime on her behalf, even if she thinks that the act itself ought not be criminal.)

Things are going well. If Fareeha were someone else, she might say that things are going _too _well, and that surely something must go wrong soon, but Fareeha is not her wife, and is more than happy to accept that sometimes, things go right—particularly when one has put quite a lot of time and effort into planning said things. 

So she finally relaxes, a bit, when they make it into their rental car. Part of her worries, still, about making the most of this week, worries that she somehow has not done enough to ensure that things will go well, worries that maybe she chose the wrong place to go, or forgot something in her preparations, but then she and Angela start bickering over who ought to drive—Angela insisting that she is a better driver than Fareeha, despite the fact that she has never in her life driven on the right side of the road—and Fareeha realizes, this is fine. In many ways, today is just like the many days which preceded it, is still, for all its symbolic meaning, just a day.

That calms her. She may not know what to do for a perfect honeymoon looks like, may not know quite what her wife expects from a honeymoon, but she does know their day to day routine, knows what about that makes Angela happy, and makes herself happy, too, and is more than practiced enough in striking that balance to be able to do so here.

Fareeha drives, insists on it, but goes more slowly than usual, for her wife’s peace of mind, and the last part of their trip passes quickly, once the two of them have fallen back into their normal speech patterns, have stopped worrying about _traveling _and _honeymoons _and _marriage. _They are able to laugh about how ridiculous some of their friends looked, trying to dress formally for their wedding, joke about Genji technically violating their request that all guests be unarmed by, well, having his arms, and the weapons they contain, and to make a bet on which of their coworkers will contact them first, will have some problem that they cannot solve. 

(Both of them are wrong, in that no one contacts them. Later, they will learn that Jesse _almost _did, before Ana stopped him, and so Angela was nearly right.)

By the time they have arrived at the cabin, then, they have returned to what is normal territory for them, and Fareeha has stopped worrying so much about everything. Even if things do not go entirely as planned, Angela seems to be enjoying herself already—and Fareeha is too, when she stops worrying—which is really the most important thing. Never have they been the most romantic couple, and Fareeha realizes that it is futile worrying about what a honeymoon ought to look like, when she should be focusing on the fact that this is what they said they wanted, is what will work for them, an escape from work, and coworkers, without the pressure of anything else.

(There is just some added pressure, Fareeha thinks, getting married as a gay person, to do things traditionally as possible, to be able to look at some metric and say, _see, we__’re just like everyone else, _even if she and Angela are not, in fact, just like everyone else, and do not particularly want to be. So it is hard to not measure herself against that standard, the idea of what a honeymoon ought to be, even when she is doing what the two of them wanted.)

Certainly, Angela does not seem to be disappointed, her first comment upon entering the cabin, which Sam decorated for this occasion according to Fareeha’s instructions, being that “It’s nicer than I thought.”

“Nicer than you thought?” What, did Angela think Fareeha was doing, when she said she was busy planning?

“There’s more space,” Angela says. “A lot more space.”

How small she thought the cabin would be, Fareeha does not want to know, because it is only a small thing, two bedrooms, a kitchen and dining area, a living room and a bathroom. There is hardly enough space to accommodate guests, when one of her father’s friends or siblings wants to join him. 

“I thought we would want to have space.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Angela turns, then to face Fareeha again, a little grin curling at the corner of her mouth, “Close quarters can be romantic.”

In theory, of course, yes, but in practice, “Remember what happened at Ecopoint; Cairns?” They managed to _both _fall out of the bed, and to wake the rooms on either side of them in the process.

“I see your point,” Angela concedes. “So are you going to show me to the not-so-small bedroom, or…?”

“Be patient,” Fareeha says, “There are still a few things I want to set up. The bathroom is that door over there if you want to take a nice bath, and freshen up.”

“Is that your polite way of telling me I smell like I’ve just gotten off an airplane?” asks Angela, tone teasing.

“I’m not saying—”

“It’s fine,” Angela says. “I _would _like a nice bath, and hopefully once you’re done setting up, you can come join me.”

“I will!” Fareeha supposes that, at least today, she can be forgiven for sounding _very _eager to fuck her wife.

As quickly as she can, she moves their bags into the bedroom, unpacks the things she wants out for tonight, and grabs the flowers from the back door. They are roses, a cliche, because sometimes, cheesy things can be nice too, and because Angela does not seem to particularly care about flowers one way or another, so going with something symbolic is fine. Some of the roses, she separates the petals from, scatters throughout the room in a way she hopes looks nice, rather than messy, and the rest she keeps in a neat bouquet, to give to Angela directly. Then she checks the flue, quickly, before she prepares everything she needs to light a fire in the fireplace once Angela is out of the bath, partially for warmth, but mostly for ambiance. Lastly, she slips into lingerie, a chemise over far lacier underwear than her usual preference, and thinks that is enough, for one night.

(Originally, she had planned to cook, too, and all the ingredients she needs should be in the fridge, left there at her request—but she and Angela had been hungrier on the plane than either of them expected, and so they have already eaten enough for one day. If Angela wants something later, there are plenty of smaller things, but Fareeha does not think that either one of them has the desire for a full meal at the moment.)

She is a little nervous, stepping into the bathroom, worries that she has not done enough, or has done too much, or that she cut of the chemise is not as appealing as she first thought, when she bought it, but all of that is quickly forgotten when she looks at Angela in the bath, sees what a mess has been made.

For a moment, there is silence, before Angela says, “I may have underestimated how many bubbles this would produce.”

_May have_ is a very polite way of putting it, as Angela is currently sitting up to her neck in bubbles. 

“How long has it been like this?” Fareeha did not take too long, getting ready, but she was not in any rush, either, so she is wondering whether or not Angela has just been sitting here, absolutely covered in bubbles, for the past quarter of an hour.

“Only a few minutes,” Angela insists. “I drained the tub after I finished rinsing off, and then I saw the bubble bath in the cabinet and thought—well, it might have been fun to surprise you, if you had walked in and I were only strategically covered in a few bubbles. Then this happened, and I’d hoped they’d pop before you finished, but…”

For a genius, her wife is not very good at problem-solving simple things. “They’re not supposed to pop quickly,” Fareeha explains, trying her best to let herself seem _too _amused, “That’s kind of the idea. But I’m sure if we look it up there has to be some solution.”

“Could you?” Angela asks, raising one bubble-clad arm high enough to gesture to the fact that she would leave quite the trail behind her if she went to go get her phone right now.

“Of course,” Fareeha says, and only allows herself to laugh once she has left the room.

After a quick search, and recomposing herself, Fareeha reenters the bathroom, salt in hand. “Apparently,” says she, “We just salt it.”

“That’s it?” asks Angela.

“I guess we’ll find out,” Fareeha says, taking some salt and sprinkling it on the massive pile of bubbles covering Angela’s feet.

Fortunately, it works, and in a few minutes time they are nearly bubble free. “So,” says Angela to her, when she sets the salt box down. “It seems I have to rinse off _again_, now that I smell like I’ve been to the beach. Care to join me?”

The tub is rather small, so Fareeha thinks it will be cramped, but, “Why not? It’ll get nice to no longer feel like I’ve just been on a plane.”

A hum of agreement from Angela, “Perfect,” says she, moving so that her back is against the far wall of the tub, and her legs are apart, “Just refill the water and you can sit right here.”

“My legs are longer,” Fareeha points out, “It’d make more sense if I were the one in back.”

“That may be true, but it would be exponentially harder, if you were sitting behind me, for me to feel you up under the pretext of helping you get washed off.”

Fareeha does not need any more convincing.

True to her word, Angela does keep to the pretext of helping Fareeha get clean, starts slowly, once the bath is drawn, instructs Fareeha to tilt her head forwards so that she can shampoo her. Happily, Fareeha obliges, and enjoys the way Angela’s firm fingers work their way through her hair, finds herself soothed by the warmth of the bath, the scent of the shampoo, the way Angela is gently massaging the tension out of her scalp. It is incredibly relaxing—almost too much so, after a long day of traveling—and Fareeha has to remind herself that Angela did not invite her into the bath so she could fall asleep.

“We should do this more often,” suggests she, voice deeply contented.

“If you like,” Angela agrees, “Although I think I’ll skip the bubbles, next time.”

“That might be for the best,” Fareeha does not bother, this time, to suppress her chuckle, and Angela soon is laughing too.

A minute or two later, Angela gently pushes her forwards, “Rinse your hair for me, please,” she requests, and Fareeha is more than happy to oblige, scoots far enough forwards that she can lie back and submerge her head, enjoys a moment of peace, of silence, of anticipation, before she sits back up, moves again towards Angela, and waits for her wife to touch her.

Evidently, Angela has other plans, because she passes forward, insistently, a bottle of body wash. “Wash your legs and feet,” says she, “While I get your back.”

This is, Fareeha thinks, decidedly less sexy than how she imagined it would be, but she can appreciate that Angela wants her to be clean, and so she does as she has been asked. She is rewarded, as she does so, with the feeling of Angela soaping her back, strong hands working at the knots that have formed there, the result of travel, wedding planning, and worry about what will happen on base when the two of them are away.

This is something her wife is quite good at, massage. She has some degree of natural ability, and a very good knowledge of human anatomy, given her work, but she has also worked to be better at it, Fareeha knows, started doing so after reading that scar tissue massage reduced instance and severity of phantom pain, and expanded over time to other kinds of massage, learning how to ease Fareeha’s cramps, and how to relieve her stress. More than the relief which accompanies a reduction in the tension between her shoulders, Fareeha feels very loved, and cared for, when Angela does this for her, appreciates that her wife has taken the time and effort to learn this, just for her, appreciates that Angela _likes _to take care of her, when she needs it.

(So very many people in Fareeha’s life have assumed that she does not need support, that she can do everything by herself, that she is too strong to need another person, and none of that is true. She might survive, on her own, but it is only when she is cared for, when she has another person to rely on, that she is able to feel her best. As much as she likes to take care of other people, as integral as that is to her identity, it is important that she is able, sometimes, to turn that off. Angela lets her do that, supports her in her vulnerability, and lets Fareeha, too, be the supportive one, when she wants to be.)

Here, alone, Fareeha does not worry about disguising the groan of satisfaction that escapes her when Angela works out one of her worse knots, leans back into Angela’s touch, as much is she is able while she finishing washing the rest of herself. She lets her eyes slip closed as she does so, enjoys the warmth of the water, the smell of the soap, the release of tension that accompanies Angela’s careful work. It hits her, again, that they are _married, _that she can look forward to nights like this for the rest of her life, that her wife is always going to be there, when she needs comfort, always going to ensure that Fareeha is cared for, that she does not forget to be vulnerable, does not close herself off to the support she needs. Always, she is going to have the woman in her life who does things like this for her, who sees her as a whole person, not just a protector, but as a woman, too, who needs sometimes for someone to care for her, to touch her tenderly, to sooth her aches, to hold her as she cries. It is almost overwhelming, the thought of it, in the best way. Some part of her was afraid to want this, this kind of true partnership, and she knows that she might have settled for less, once, would have stepped into the role of someone’s guardian, rather than their equal partner, and she is so, so glad that she did not, is so happy to be with Angela, who loves all of her, the strong and the soft.

Soft is she, as she leans into her wife’s touch, pliable, allowing herself to fully relax for the first time in weeks, no longer worried about the wedding, or this, their honeymoon, and soft, too, is Angela’s touch, as she finishes massaging Fareeha and moves, instead, to soap up her chest. Her fingers are light at first, teasing, skimming the edge of Fareeha’s breasts before dipping down to her ribcage, and tracing little patterns over Fareeha’s abdomen, following at first the lines of the henna, still quite visible after only two washes, and then focusing only on the places where she knows she can get a reaction out of Fareeha, can make her gasp. It is pleasant, this sort of thing, and Fareeha often likes to be teased a little—or likes, at least, how much Angela enjoys teasing her—but she is impatient, now, thinks that the whole lead up to this has been foreplay enough, and she leans into Angela’s touch, arches towards her hands.

In response, Fareeha finds herself pulled closer to Angela, her wife’s breasts pressed against her back, Angela’s body wrapped around Fareeha and their faces almost touching, close enough that Fareeha can feel Angela’s breath against the shell of her ear—hot and fast, in a way that suggests Angela is enjoying touching Fareeha almost as much as Fareeha is enjoying being touched.

Ostensibly, however, she is still helping Fareeha bathe, and although Fareeha forgets that, caught up in both the feeling of Angela’s hands on her and of being loved, she is reminded when Angela breaks contact to get more soap. “Angela,” she does not quite whine, but it is definitely closer to a plea than a request.

“Just a moment,” her wife tells her. “I need a bit more soap. You do want to be clean, yes?”

“I’d rather be dirty,” Fareeha says, pun escaping her before she can stop it.

Fortunately, her wife seems to find her sense of humor charming, does not laugh at the joke, but lets out a little snort, before she answers, with a smile in her voice, “Very funny. Now raise your arms a bit.”

Fareeha obliges, lets Angela reach under her arms to have a better angle at her torso, is rewarded, almost immediately, with Angela _finally _soaping up her breasts. Although the touch begins gently, it does not stay that way for long, and Fareeha appreciates it, knows that Angela could draw this out much longer, were she so inclined—and, although Fareeha could, of course, intervene at any time, could touch herself, or ask that Angela speed up, she much prefers to let things play out like this, likes to not have to ask for things. 

It is nice, more than, and Fareeha wants, simultaneously, to lean back into Angela, to melt against and into her, and to lean forward, to press herself up against Angela’s hands. Torn between the two, she does neither, only stays there in Angela’s arms and lets herself be touched, lets her wife take her where and how she will. It is silent, for the most part, but for the sound of the water, moving with them, and for their breath, Fareeha’s now decidedly faster than her wife’s.

By now, Angela seems to have at last decided that she has teased Fareeha enough, and one hand goes from Fareeha’s chest down between her legs, fingers finding her clit at last. It is intense, the contact, after Fareeha has spent so long in anticipation, particularly given that Angela does _not _tease her, here, instead is direct and to the point, rolling her clit in the way Fareeha likes best—the way that makes her finish fastest.

“_Angela_,” says she, half a gasp, but she has no follow up, does not know if she wants Angela to slow down or to _hurry up_, wants nothing more than to be able to come, and, at the same time, does not want for this to be over too quickly, wants to keep this feeling of being in Angela’s arms for some time. 

“I know,” her wife’s mouth is right against Fareeha’s ear as she says it, “I know.”

Fareeha does not know what it is that Angela has read, from her statement, does not know if Angela, in fact, understands what she is feeling, but she does not have much time to contemplate that before she is distracted, thoroughly, by the way Angela is moving in tandem the fingers on her clit and on her nipple. Suddenly, thinking does not matter so much anymore.

What matters is this: the way Angela’s touch feels different, in the water, the newness of the sensation combining with the familiarity she has with her wife’s touch. As much as she likes their routines, as good as things usually are, with the two of them, it is nice, too, to feel something new, nice to be doing something different. At home, their tub is much too small to comfortably fit the both of them, and although they shower together, sometimes, it is nothing like this. 

What matters is this: there will be more than enough time to do this again, if she wants to in the future, will be more than enough opportunities. They have a lifetime of vacations to take together, will someday retire and buy a home, one with a bathtub large enough for this sort of thing, and will be able, then, to do this whenever they want. There is comfort in that, in the certainty Fareeha has in their future, and more than comfort, there is joy in it, and anticipation.

What matters is this: even if she wanted to, Fareeha is not certain she could hold off for much longer. Since they arrived, and even before then, she has been thinking about this, about her honeymoon with her wife, about all the things they are going to do to one another. Coupled with the teasing from Angela before they started, the anticipation she felt when Angela massaged her scalp, worked out the tension in her back—she feels she has waited long enough already.

So she rocks her hips into Angela’s touch, focuses on that sensation, as best she can, notices too the way the water sloshes with her movement, little waves hitting the far end of the bathtub before they come crashing back against her. It is a nice additional sensation, although she does not need anything extra, at this point, because she can feel her orgasm building, knows it will not be too much longer before she comes, whether she intends to or not. She feels so much—Angela’s hands, the water, the tightening of her own muscles, the way her wife is wrapped around her, the safety of it, the intimacy—and she knows that it will be too much, soon.

But she does not rush that moment, does her best simply to feel this, to experience it, to take in everything, the sensations, the sounds, the smell, lets it build, and build, feels the waves hit her harder as she moves in time with Angela, notices the pressure of her building orgasm but does nothing to hasten it, just waits.

One day, she knows, this will all be a memory, albeit a pleasant one, but she is here, now, wants to experience as much of it as she can, so that in the years to come she can always recall this, the way she feels in this moment, excited for their future, but anchored in the present, Angela’s arms around her making her feel safe and loved and wanted. 

Perhaps it is just good timing, or perhaps that thought is enough for her, in and of itself, because she finds herself tipping over the edge, then, orgasm washing over her, gentle at first but then far stronger towards the end. It is a different sensation than she is used to, and she wonders if it is because of the water, or the sentiment.

In either case, it is incredibly satisfying, and she feels, briefly, that she is something more than just her body, that Angela’s hands could touch her soul, too—and then, it ends, and she slumps against Angela as little aftershocks run through her.

Silence, during which Fareeha notices that the water is quickly becoming tepid, before her wife says, “Pleased as I am that you’re so satisfied, I’m going to need you to move at some point. We need to rinse off properly.”

“We do,” Fareeha says, but she does not stand, turns, instead to face Angela, shifts onto her knees, and leans in, “But first,” says she, before she kisses her wife, deeply.

At first, Angela responds, kisses her back, lets a little sound of pleasure escape from the back of her throat, but when Fareeha moves to touch her, she breaks the kiss, gently pushes backwards on Fareeha’s chest.

“Wait,” says she, “Wait. I’d rather not do this here.”

Fareeha is confused. “But we just…?”

“Yes,” agrees Angela, “Because I thought you would like it—”

“I did,” Fareeha confirms, in case there is any question.

“—But _I _would prefer somewhere more comfortable, if you don’t mind.”

That, Fareeha supposes, is fair. Of the two of them, Fareeha is by far more adventurous, and although she has convinced Angela to branch out once or twice, she knows by now that her wife prefers to have sex in a bed, or perhaps on their couch, and is happy to leave it at that. What excitement may accompany other locations is almost never outweighed by the discomfort of hard surfaces, in Angela’s mind.

“Alright,” Fareeha says, “You go get comfortable, then, and I’ll rinse off.” She kisses Angela once more, just a peck, this time, and moves off of her, stands up.

“Thank you,” Angela says with a smile, “I’ll be waiting.” She moves past Fareeha, then, and towels off. They say nothing, for a minute or two, the only sound that of the draining tub, and then the showerhead, before Angela finishes drying herself and moves towards the doorway—where she pauses, apparently having an afterthought, “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d appreciate if you put back on what you were wearing earlier.”

As much as Fareeha appreciates the courtesy, “You didn’t have to ask,” says she, tone clearly amused, “I bought it for your benefit.”

“Of course,” Angela says, “Thank you, then,” before she closes the door, and leaves Fareeha alone in the bathroom.

More silence, the spray of the water against her, and Fareeha finishes rinsing off with the efficiency granted her by years in the military, wanting to get back to Angela quickly, and finish what they started. As much as she likes it when Angela makes love to her, she likes, too, to be the one bringing Angela pleasure, likes to be able to express her love with more than just words, to try and make Angela feel everything she herself is feeling, tonight, the love and the hope and the warmth. 

So she showers quickly as she can, and rushes through drying off, too. Still damp from the water, it is not as easy to get the chemise on this time, the fabric clinging to her skin, but once it is on, she gives herself a quick once over in the mirror and decides that, at least, it looks no worse for wear. In fact, she thinks she looks rather sexy.

All that is left is to use the toilet and wash her hands—something she does not rush—before she is done in the restroom, exits with a spring in her step, ready to sweep Angela off her feet, and—

—Angela has already lit the fire, herself, and found the bouquet of roses, too, has moved them onto the side table next to the couch. She has also produced candles from somewhere, must have found them when searching the kitchen for a lighter for the fire, and she has spread them throughout the room, replacing the overhead light.

“You’ve settled in quickly,” Fareeha says. She is not put out, exactly, rather appreciates that Angela has gone through the trouble of doing this, but _she _is supposed to be the romantic one, of the two of them, and was looking forward to lighting the fire for her wife, and giving her the flowers.

“So have you,” says Angela, moving towards Fareeha from her place in front of the fire, “And the roses are lovely, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Fareeha says, “The candles are nice, too.” 

“Not too cheesy?”

“Just cheesy enough,” Fareeha says, because she happens to _like _things that are just a little over the top, even if Angela does not particularly care one way or the other.

“Good,” says Angela. “That’s good.”

“Should I assume you don’t want to go straight back to the bedroom, then?” Angela certainly would not leave the fire unattended, knows how dangerous that is.

A hum from Angela, who is moving towards the couch, even as she answers, “Well, we don’t have a fireplace at home, and I thought it would be romantic.”

“It is,” Fareeha agrees, joining Angela on the couch. “It very much is.”

This is not, of course, what Fareeha was planning, is not her leading Angela into the bedroom, surprising her with rose petals and a strap-on, and the two of them perhaps coming back out to sit by the fire later, when they are hungry enough, again, to eat something, and feeding one another strawberries dipped in chocolate—but it is certainly not a bad alternative, and Fareeha appreciates that Angela has taken the initiative, here, to make a romantic gesture, even though it usually is not her way to do such things. 

(Angela is not unromantic, exactly, but Fareeha would not call her romantic, either. She loves Fareeha, and is unafraid to show it, can be quite demonstrative in her own way—but she simply does not care much about romantic gestures, never has. For Fareeha’s sake, she tries, but she is generally much better at meeting Fareeha’s needs in other ways, showing her love through smaller, simpler things, and Fareeha has come to love that about her wife, has come to appreciate getting to be the one, of the two of them, who gets to be romantic, to be called sweet. Still, it is nice when Angela does do these things, for a change, even if it does interrupt Fareeha’s own plans.)

Besides which, Fareeha is not thinking very much about what she has planned, right now, is far more focused on the fact that Angela is entirely nude, now, having discarded her towel when they made their way over to the couch, and is moving to sit _very _close to her.

“Impatient, are we?” she teases, even as she moves to put her arm around Angela, shifts to be able to face her better.

“Maybe a little,” Angela says with a blush, “But can you blame me?”

No, Fareeha certainly cannot, particularly given that they are on their honeymoon, and anyway, “It’s cute.”

(Normally, Angela is less forward, is reluctant to say that she _wants _Fareeha, is more comfortable when Fareeha is ostensibly the one to initiate things, and that is all well and good, because they have discussed her reasons for feeling that way, and Fareeha finds that they have merit, but still, Fareeha thinks it nice that here, in this context, where it is _expected _that Angela will want to have sex, she feels more comfortable initiating things than she might be normally. As content as Fareeha is with the way things are, it is a nice change for things to go this way, and gives her hope that, in the context of their marriage, this will continue to get easier for the two of them to navigate.)

“‘Cute’ isn’t exactly what I was going for,” Angela tells her, shifting so that she is facing Fareeha on the couch, rather than sitting beside her, feet tucked up next to her and one hand on Fareeha’s far knee.

“Fine,” Fareeha leans in as she says it, brings her face close enough to Angela’s that she is certain her wife can feel her breath as she says that, gaze moving from Angela’s eyes to her lips, full and slightly parted, “You’re irresistible, is that better?” 

“Much,” Angela agrees before she kisses Fareeha. 

If there were any doubt, before, of where Angela wanted this to go—and there was not—then this would settle it, because she does not even pretend to start slowly, sucks Fareeha’s lower lip into her mouth and nips at it gently in the way that always makes Fareeha shiver, the sting on just the right side of pleasant, while her grip on Fareeha’s knee tightens as Fareeha kisses her back. They have gotten good at this, the two of them, have long since learned how best to please the other. For different reasons, they have exchange any number of different kinds of kisses, different speeds and intensities and person in charge for any number of sentiments. In the beginning, things were not so easy, but there is a familiarity to how they move, now, how they touch one another, which makes something as simple as this feel, to Fareeha, like coming home.

With as much uncertainty as they deal with in their day to day lives, it is nice to know that Angela will always suck in a breath, hard, if Fareeha nips her back, nice to be able to predict the way her wife’s breath will speed up when Fareeha moves to take control of the kiss, the pressure and the speed of it, nice to say with certainty that if Angela breaks their kiss for a moment, tilts her head so that they are forehead to forehead while she catches her breath, it is because she is overwhelmed in the best way, needs a moment to collect herself so that she can feel more in control, again, like she likes to be, because even after years it sometimes catches her off-guard how loved and wanted she is.

Unusual is this: when Angela breaks the kiss, catches her breath, she actually voices what it is she is feeling in this moment, tells Fareeha, “I love you,” and again, words falling from her mouth ungracefully, “I love you, and I’m so lucky that—You’re perfect, I love you.”

“You’re pretty perfect yourself,” Fareeha says, rubs her thumb in a reassuring circle on Angela’s cheekbone, six seconds on the downward circle, two seconds at the bottom, eight seconds back up to the top—the same pattern Angela taught her once to breathe in in order to calm herself.

“Mmm,” Angela does not agree, but Fareeha has apparently taught her, by now, not to disagree—because Fareeha will argue that point, knows that Angela is not perfect in the same way that no one is, but thinks, too, that her wife just might be perfect for _her_. “Kiss me again?”

“Of course,” Fareeha hardly needs to be asked.

This time, she lets Angela lead, lets her control this, and things are slower, for a bit, Angela taking her time and kissing Fareeha deeply in a way that demonstrates less _lust _and more a deep affection, before they pick back up again. Still, Fareeha lets Angela set the pace, lets Angela push her back further against the couch, and allows her wife to climb into her lap without complaint. By now, it is comfortable, the weight of her wife on top of her like this, has been the precursor to many an evening, and Fareeha is more than happy to fall into the usual rhythm of things, to move her hands down to grab Angela’s ass while Angela’s hands find their way under her shirt—or, this time, her chemise. 

Before Angela, Fareeha never was much a fan of making out, but the year or so she and her wife spent doing just this before Angela decided that yes, she was comfortable sleeping with someone again, made her learn to appreciate it, to enjoy the sensation of a body on top of hers, touching as much of her as possible, without an expectation that there will necessarily be anything else following this. It is even nicer like this, the crackling of the fire joining the sound of their breath growing heavier, and the feeling of Angela directly against the skin of her thigh, so she can feel as her wife starts to get wetter, notices the change when Angela grinds down on her just so, and knows to bring one of her hands around to play with Angela’s breasts, feeling the weight of one in her hand as she squeezes it, and the way Angela gasps against her mouth.

When it is done to her, Fareeha prefers only so much teasing, before she is quite ready for things to move on—barring when she and Angela have agreed upon something beforehand—but Fareeha likes this, getting her wife all wound up, seeing how far things will go before Angela finally gives in and tells her that she wants, _needs _more. Angela, too, likes things that way, likes to be put in a position where she feels it is acceptable, expected even, for her to beg, for her to finally say what she has been thinking all along, to give voice to how much she wants Fareeha, and so Fareeha does not feel guilty when she does so, does not feel the least bit bad about the fact that she is ignoring how insistently Angela is moving against her thigh now. If Angela wants to be touched there, she will ask for it.

Instead, Fareeha keeps her focus on Angela’s breasts, breaks their kiss and leans, albeit at a slightly awkward angle, to bring her mouth to one of Angela’s breasts, enjoys the way her wife’s hands move, then, to grab at the back of her head—not pulling her hair, because she hates that, but pushing her face closer to Angela’s chest—and the way Angela’ breathing now sounds so heavy, as if the air is being pushed out of her. For a moment, there is a bit of a shuffle, Angela moving further back from her position halfway up Fareeha’s thigh to sit just above her knee, instead, so the angle is an easier one, and she points her foot to make it easier, so her knee is raised several centimeters higher than the rest of her leg, enjoys the surprised sound Angela makes at the sudden pressure the movement causes. 

“Are you sure,” Angela asks, is cut off when Fareeha grazes her teeth across her nipple, “Are you sure that’s, ah, comfortable?”

It is not, particularly, but Fareeha quite likes the way Angela reacts to having a mouth on her breasts, and so she breaks off from sucking a mark against Angela’s skin only long enough to to say that, “It’ll be fine for a little bit. Just make sure you’re holding yourself up on the couch.” She does not wait for Angela’s reply before she returns to what she is doing, but she does move her hand from Angela’s ass and up to the small of her back to help with her balance.

“Okay,” Angela is very good at following orders—at least during sex. “I’ll,” a little noise as she shifts one of her feet onto the ground, and the angle of Fareeha’s leg against her changes, “Try to be quick.”

Were Fareeha’s mouth were not occupied, she would point out that she did not say that Angela had to do that, and anyway, Angela is many things, but, generally speaking, not _quick—_but she is rather busy trying to see what other lovely noises she can draw from Angela, and so she says nothing. In any case, there is something so very interesting about this, seeing how close Angela can get without either of them stimulating her directly, wondering just how much teasing she can take, and Fareeha does not particularly want to stop doing what they are doing at the moment, anyway, likes how perfectly Angela’s nipples fit in her mouth, when she decides to give one a good flick with her tongue, likes the smell and the taste of her wife’s skin, just slightly sweaty as a result of the heat from the fire and their current activities, and still smelling like the rose bubble bath mix.

When she switches breasts, moves her hand that she was using to tease Angela down to one of Angela’s knees to further steady her, she notices how her wife is grinding against her faster, the little sounds that accompany each movement, and she realizes that—_oh_, Angela is closer than she thought, much closer. It surprises her, and she does not know whether to chalk that up to anticipation, to the circumstance of it being their honeymoon, and how much is the amount of attention she is paying to her wife’s breasts. Angela is sensitive, more so than she, and that she has always known, but they are usually clothed when they make out like this, and so she does not think she has ever noticed just how much Angela likes for her to do this in particular, likes to have Fareeha’s mouth at her chest. 

Later, they will have to discuss that, Fareeha will have to ask if they should do this more often, but now, she says nothing, because she is not going to move her mouth, keeps it around Angela’s nipple, and switches from teasing to sucking it properly. Instantly, she is gratified by Angela’s response, her name, “Fareeha,” gasped out, along with a buck of Angela’s hips and then, again, “_Fareeha_, please,” when she does it again. 

(It is a good thing, Fareeha thinks, that Angela likes it, because that in particular, they have never tried, always keeping to a flick of the tongue, or the occasional nip, if one or the other of them is feeling particularly adventurous, and it would be unfortunate if she ruined this moment by trying something new only to find that Angela thought it weird, or uncomfortable.)

So she does it again, and again, and after a few moments of awkwardness, figures out how to make it work, what rhythm is comfortable and draws the most response from Angela. In response, Angela grinds against her harder, movements starting to falter, and Fareeha tightens her grip on Angela’s back, just in case. Experience has taught her that Angela tends to lose some coordination when she comes, and she thinks that letting her wife fall would be a rather inauspicious beginning to her honeymoon—because it is increasingly clear that Angela is going to come, just from this, is going to be able to grind herself to completion with only the added stimulation of Fareeha sucking at her chest. Something about that makes Fareeha feel very proud of herself.

(And, what is more, she is realizing just how much she likes this herself, is becoming increasingly aware of the insistent tug of arousal she feels, and the fact that although the rest of her has been dried by the heat of the fire, her panties are still very, very damp.)

Soon, it is only Fareeha who has any sort of rhythm anymore, and she considers, for a moment, if it would help Angela if she brought a hand to her clit, if she rubbed it the way Angela likes, because Angela’s breathing has been ragged for the better part of two minutes now, and she knows her wife is very, _very _close, does not want to draw this out uncomfortably long, or make her beg if she does not want to, but just as the thought occurs to her, Angela suddenly goes rigid in her arms, perfectly still for a second, two, three, before she comes.

As best she can, Fareeha keeps her mouth moving through it, but it is made slightly difficult by the way Angela pulls her closer as she comes, and so she settles instead for rubbing Angela’s back until she calms, easing her out of the orgasm and back into awareness.

A minute, two, before Angela shifts off of Fareeha and back on the couch next to her, catches her breath and says, “Well that was… unexpected.”

“Is that all?” Fareeha does not bother to hide the amusement in her voice as she asks.

“You were lovely,” Angela pats the top of Fareeha’s hand as she says this, shifts to rest her head on one of Fareeha’s shoulders, “You always are.”

Her voice is sleepy, like it often is after an orgasm, and Fareeha, seeing the way this might be headed, and very much not wanting for the two of them to sleep sitting up, suggests that, “We should probably head to bed.”

“In a bit,” Angela says, before she teases, “But I didn’t _just _marry you because you’re so good at sex. You happen to be an excellent snuggler, too.”

“So you’re just using me for my body,” Fareeha quips back, not bothering to correct that she meant that they ought to _sleep_. 

“Perhaps.”

“I suppose,” Fareeha says, trying her best to sound magnanimous, “That in that case, I can reward your honesty by staying here.”

So they do. For a little while, there is silence, and Fareeha gets to just enjoy how nice it feels, to be cuddled up against her wife on the couch, and to know that there is nowhere else they need to be, nothing else they need to do—a welcome relief after many, many busy days. Eventually, when Angela is a little more awake, they fall back to chatting about nothing, and good natured teasing. Although the scenery may be different, in the end, things here are much the same as they are at home, and it is nice to have a little break from the expectation that accompanies _marriage _and _honeymoons_, is nice to just be themselves, the same couple they always are.

When Angela gets hungry, Fareeha feeds her the strawberries, and it is almost as romantic as she imagined it would be, even if it is a little messy, the chocolate and the juice sticky on their fingers. It is sexy, too, the way Angela looks up at Fareeha from beneath her lashes as she bites down on one of the strawberries, and the way she licks the juice from her lips. Sexier still is the moment when Angela leans in to give Fareeha another strawberry and, seeing a bit of the juice which has escaped her mouth, cleans it off with her mouth. 

“I think,” Fareeha says, interrupting despite how much she is enjoying this, “That we ought, perhaps, to take this to the bedroom?” The fire is dying out, by now, has been for some time, since it was only the one log, and Angela, leaning over her in order to kiss all the juice from her skin, is certainly awake again.

“I’d like that,” Angela agrees, moving off of Fareeha and back onto the couch properly, half empty plate of strawberries in one of her hands. “Would you mind putting out the fire while I put these away and slip into something else?” 

Well, “I would mind, actually,” Fareeha says, surprising Angela, who is already moving to do what she said. “I’ve got a bit of a surprise planned, so if you could just wait for me before we go back there. It’s nothing too big,” Fareeha adds, not wanting to get Angela’s hopes too high, “But—I’d like to see your response.”

“If you like,” Angela says, “But if I’m not in lingerie before we get into bed, just know that I won’t be getting back up to put any on.”

That, Fareeha thinks she can live with. Lovely as Angela looks in something lacy, she likes her wife’s nude body just as much, and it is rather easier to not have to reach around anything, anyway. But, now that she is imagining what it is Angela might have brought with her to wear… “Tomorrow?” suggests she.

From the kitchen, Angela laughs, “I think that can be arranged, yes.”

“Good,” says Fareeha, “Good.” 

(Somehow, the two of them never seem to end up in lingerie at the same time. Neither of them wears it habitually, and even on anniversaries, it seems that only one of them ever remembers at any given time. Usually, it is Angela, which Fareeha thinks funny given that Angela is also the one of the two of them most likely to complain that the lace is itchy, but never is it both of them—with the exception of last night, for their wedding, but they both discarded the garments so quickly that it hardly counts. One day, maybe, they will manage it.)

Patiently, Angela waits while she douses the fire—or, as patiently as she ever does, when someone says that they have a surprise for her. From several feet away, Fareeha can feel her energy, can tell that she _wants _for things to hurry up, even if she is doing her best to be still, and silent. When Fareeha is content that all the embers are extinguished, Angela at last gives herself away by following a bit too eagerly behind Fareeha to the door, and bumping into her when she stops short before opening it.

“Sorry,” Angela says.

“It’s fine,” Fareeha tells her, turning around to face her wife, “But close your eyes, please?”

“Alright.” To her credit, Angela sounds only a little uncertain, trusts Fareeha, eve if she hates to be in the dark about anything—figuratively or literally. 

“Thank you,” Fareeha tells her, before she opens the door and guides Angela through. “Now,” asks she, when she has Angela standing by the bed, which she has covered in a heart made of rose petals, “What do you smell?”

“I don’t…” Angela starts, uncertainly, before she inhales deeply, trying to determine, “I’m not sure, Fareeha. You know I’m no good at this.”

This is true—Angela is _not _particularly good at identifying smells, unless the smell in question is something like blood, or cigarette smoke. Then, her sense of smell is too good. But Fareeha planned for this, picks up a petal and runs it along Angela’s cheek, “What do you feel?”

“Ähm, it’s soft?”

“It is,” Fareeha agrees, “But what’s the shape?”

“Convex,” Angela says, with much greater confidence, “And irregular.”

“So the smell, texture, and shape, are…?” Given that Angela found, already, the bouquet of roses, Fareeha did not think that this would be difficult. Clearly, she was wrong.

“I don’t know, Fareeha,” Angela tells her, “Maybe if I held it? The somatosensory nerves in the face are primarily conditioned to interpret environmental stimuli and not—”

“Alright,” Fareeha says, “You can open your eyes.” Usually, when Angela gets too technical, it is because she is frustrated, or nervous, so clearly this is not working for her.

As Angela does so, Fareeha watches her face, notices that yes—she is pleasantly surprised, after all. Good, because Fareeha never quite knows how Angela will react to romantic gestures; as certain as she was that this would not be an unwelcome one, she knew that there was a chance, too, that Angela would tell her that this was going to be a lot to clean up later.

“You did all this while I was in the bath?” Angela asks her.

_Of course_ Angela is more impressed by the work that went into arranging this than the act itself. Well, Fareeha does not mind, why she is happy, so long as she is, laughs and says, “It didn’t take long. The trouble was coordinating the delivery.”

“Still,” Angela says, stepping closer to Fareeha, “I appreciate it,” before she kisses her deeply.

For a moment, Fareeha lets Angela kiss her, before she breaks it off, steps back and says, “Wait, one more surprise.”

“Fareeha,” Angela pouts, a little, but she moves to sit on the bed when Fareeha gestures her over.

“You’ll like it, I promise,” Fareeha says, digging their harness and a dildo out of one of their bags.

“Oh,” says Angela when she sees what Fareeha is pulling out, “I suppose I can forgive the interruption.”

“You suppose?” Fareeha asks, shucking her panties and sliding the harness on in their place.

“So long as you don’t expect me to be doing anything _too _strenuous,” Angela says, “Although it looks like you’ll be the one doing all the work.”

Fareeha moves to kiss Angela, pushes her back against the bed and agrees that, “Most of it, anyway, yes.” It feels only fair, after earlier, and in any case, she _likes _to do this, likes to feel like she is really giving Angela an orgasm, rather than just helping her have one. Some part of her feels proud afterward—something Angela does not understand, and enjoys teasing her about—and anyway, she is sometimes able to come, too, when they do this, provided she gets the angle just right so that the base of the dildo lines up with her clit. 

“Then I’d be a fool to complain,” Angela tells her, their faces only centimeters apart.

She takes her time kissing Angela, teasing her, because as excellent as Angela’s surgeon was, her vagina is not quite as pliant as a cis woman’s might be, and so they can never rush into penetration, have to ease their way into it, make sure that she is good and ready before they do anything too much. Most of the time, it is not too much of a concern, because Angela likes to be teased anyway, and because Fareeha can always use one or two fingers, and stop at that, but when they use a toy they have to be more careful, like they are now, have to be extra certain to take their time—something that Fareeha does not mind, now that she has long since adjusted to the concern she felt the first time, the worry that she might somehow hurt her wife.

She will not—Angela trusts her enough to be able to say when to stop, to slow down, to switch to something else, and Fareeha has learned to trust that Angela will do so, will speak up if she needs to.

And Angela does speak up, a few minutes into Fareeha kissing her, pushes gently on Fareeha’s shoulder to ask her to break the kiss and asks, “Could you maybe, ah, try what you did earlier?” Her face is scarlet as she says it—embarrassment, not arousal.

“Earlier?” Fareeha asks, and then “You mean—_oh. _Sure.”

“Well,” Angela keeps talking as Fareeha kisses a trail down from her jaw to her breasts, pausing at the hollow of her throat to leave a little mark, “It was unexpectedly pleasant, and I’m relatively certain that I liked it—more than other people might, I mean—but you can’t prove anything without some sort of replicability, and—”

—And Fareeha thinks that their little experiment is certainly replicable, because Angela stops speaking as soon as Fareeha sucks at her breast, is cut off by a little cry. She keeps her mouth there for a minute, two, while she moves the hand with which she had been playing with Angela’s folds to penetrate her, first with one finger and then a second, checking to make sure she is prepared for something more, is ready. She is, she _definitely _is, and Fareeha can feel the way she responds to a particularly hard suck by clenching, her hips rocking along with it. 

So Fareeha removes her mouth, says with a grin that is certainly more than a little self-satisfied, “Does that confirm your hypothesis, Doctor?”

“Yes,” Angela says, one forearm thrown across her eyes, “Definitely yes.”

That is, Fareeha thinks, good to know, because she rather thinks that _she _likes it, too, and certainly wants to find out, at a later date, just how turned on Angela can get from only that—if her wife will allow her. “I’ll keep that in mind,” says she, “But for now, I think…” she curls a finger inside of Angela, watches the little shiver her wife responds with, “We should maybe move on?”

“I certainly wouldn’t object to both,” Angela says, “But I think the angle might be rather uncomfortable for you.”

“It might be,” Fareeha says. “So stay here, or…?”

“No, no—go ahead. Just, ah—you brought lube?”

“Of course.” They do not always need it—Angela _can _get wet, just not as much so as a cis woman might be able to, and most of the time, that is sufficient, but Fareeha picked one of their larger dildos, the one she favors because it matches her skin so nicely, and for that, Angela usually needs a little help. So she was prepared, brought a small, travel size bottle of water based lube, and already set it aside at the end table, just for this moment. There is a funny sound, as she applies it, and she and Angela both laugh; they always do, are long past the point in their relationship where they take sex too seriously. 

“Okay,” Fareeha says, once they have both stopped laughing, “You ready?”

“Yes,” Angela says, and then, “Thank you.”

“Good,” Fareeha says it more to herself than anything, as she lines the dildo up, “Good.” Always, when she does this, she takes a deep breath, as if she could actually feel it. Some part of her thinks that is silly, but the rest of her is too focused on going slowly enough that Angela is comfortable to linger on the thought.

A few moments pass in which she just waits, and one of Angela’s hands finds hers, comes to hold it. Despite the fact that this happens often, now, is just something they do, it always makes Fareeha feel a rush of emotion when Angela holds her hand during sex, feels somehow more intimate than the rest of it, more personal, and she feels herself making the sappy sort of smile that is decidedly not sexy, but is true to how she feels, in this moment. There is something about knowing that she is having sex with her _wife, _that she is married to a woman who can in turns laugh with her during sex, and hold her so, so tenderly, that makes her heart feel like it could burst out of her chest. She is loved. She is loved, she is loved, she is loved, and she is going to get to wake up to the woman who makes her feel this way for the rest of her life.

Before she can say something terribly sappy, can tell Angela how much she is feeling in the moment, however, her wife tells her, “You can move now, love,” and that gives her something else to focus on.

She starts slowly, despite the fact that from their current position, her standing, and Angela up against the edge of the bed, she has more leverage than she usually does when they do this laying down, because she does not want to move too quickly, wants to take her time, and make sure Angela really feels this, deep and slow.

(That is how it usually is, when they use the strap-on. Fareeha does not like moving too quickly, and is too afraid to be rough. Sometimes, Angela wants something different, but when that happens, she usually rides Fareeha, controls the pace that way. It is not in Fareeha’s nature to be rough with people, and the both of them know that.)

If she rolls her hips just right, there is pressure on her clit at the end of each thrust, particularly when Angela moves to meet her, and it feels good, feels _right_, even if it is only fleeting, is not strong enough, or long enough, to do much more than tease her, at this angle. If she were on the bed, too, she knows it would be better for her, would be a stronger sensation, but she does not want to stop now, not when Angela’s eyes are drifting shut, and her brows knit with every particularly deep thrust. There is the problem, too, that if they moved, Fareeha would not be at a very good angle to watch the way Angela’s breasts bounce in time to their movement, would not get to enjoy watching that. 

There is something to be said for focusing on Angela’s pleasure, instead of her own, watching the way her wife slowly unravels, tension building in her body as her movements become less and less voluntary, more driven by instinct. It is gratifying, to swivel her hips just so and to see Angela’s back arch in response, the hand not holding Fareeha’s tightening its grip on the sheets. She feels good, knowing that she is doing this for her wife, is getting more turned on by that, by the knowledge that she is able to bring Angela this pleasure, than by the little physical stimulation the toy is giving her. 

By now, she knows all of Angela’s tells, knows what it means when her wife tosses her head, knows how close she is from the way her thighs shake, from the words that tumble from her lips, “Fareeha,” and “More,” and “_Please,_” like a mantra. She knows, too, that Angela never comes from just this, not quite, knows that her wife always needs just a little more, needs some other kind of stimulation—and she knows, too, that Angela is not ready for things to end, yet, knows what begging is reflex and what is her wife truly asking her for something. Right now, Angela will not mind if she draws things out a little longer, will probably enjoy it, in fact, and so Fareeha keeps going, watches as her wife’s skin becomes covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and she starts to tremble, watches as she bites her lip, and screws her whole face up, watches the hand that was in the sheets start to move more restlessly, moving up to her breasts, and then to hold her shoulder, and then down, again, towards her clit, before she seems to think the better of it and grabs again at the bed. Like this, unraveling for Fareeha, she is beautiful, is naked in both the physical sense and the literal, and Fareeha feels herself growing warmer at the thought of it, enjoys knowing that Angela trusts her enough to let herself let go of all pretense, and enjoys, too, that she is able to do so so easily now, that it is almost second nature to her, doing everything Angela needs for her to do. 

Second nature too is this, noticing the way Angela’s tone changes, as she says Fareeha’s name, and knowing that she is ready, now, to come, that she is approaching the point where pleasant frustration crosses over into something else, and so Fareeha tells her, “You can come now,” gives Angela permission to touch herself—not that Angela needs permission, not really, because it was never denied her, but because Angela likes being told when to act, likes for someone else to decide, sometimes, when enough is enough. 

(Ideally, Fareeha would like to be the one to touch Angela now, but one of her hands is holding her wife’s hip, keeping her in place well enough to ensure that the dildo stays lined up properly—and the other is still being held by Angela, although that grip is no longer gentle, and is now very, very tense.)

It is less than a minute before Angela is coming, Fareeha’s name on her mouth the entire time, and Fareeha stays still, lets Angela move against her until it is over, and she decides she is done chasing aftershocks, releases her grip on Fareeha’s hand and murmurs a quiet, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Fareeha says, trying and failing to keep the amusement from her voice as she gently pulls out of Angela. Certainly, she does not _expect _thanks, but she does always appreciate it, likes having her ego stroked, just a little bit. 

Angela says nothing more, however, and Fareeha gets the sense that the jetlag, in combination with her usual post-coital drowsiness, is rapidly catching up with her.

Still, her grip on Fareeha’s hand is firm as ever, and Fareeha has to remind her that, “I need you to give me my hand back so I can take this off.”

“Sorry,” Angela says, and her sleepy voice confirms Fareeha’s suspicions.

“It’s fine,” says she, “Get settled in while I take this off, and I’ll be right there.”

Her wife does not have to be told twice, moves quickly to get under the covers, and Fareeha decides, as she removes the harness as quickly as she is able, that cleaning the toy can wait until tomorrow—she always falls asleep easier with Angela curled up around her. The chemise, too, she pulls off, folding and setting it atop the nightstand, before she, too, climbs into bed, slides under the covers and into her wife’s arms. She is still turned on, but the arousal will subside in time, and now that she is in bed, too, Fareeha thinks she is going to fall asleep soon enough despite it.

Apparently, Angela has other plans, because although she curls around Fareeha like she normally does, one leg thrown across Fareeha’s, on her side next to Fareeha who is, as always, on her back, she does not throw her arm across Fareeha’s chest like normal, or rest her head on one of Fareeha’s breasts. Instead, her mouth finds the side of Fareeha’s neck, and she begins to kiss it, and her hand drifts downwards, tracing familiar patterns as she makes her way from Fareeha’s stomach down to her pubic hair, and from there, even lower.

“What are you…?” It is obvious, of course, what Angela is doing, but still, it is a surprise. Normally, once they are under the covers, Angela is done for the night, no matter what Fareeha might want.

“’S your turn,” Angela murmurs, voice betraying just how tired she is, even as one of her fingers traces along Fareeha’s slit teasingly.

“You don’t have to,” Fareeha tells her, even though she very much _wants _for Angela to continue, was already very turned on before this, and is now even more so. Still, she does not want Angela to feel obligated; they have never taken _turns _before, not really, have only done as much as they both feel like, despite the fact that it often means that one or the other of them comes more times than their partner, or not at all.

(Usually, in fact, it is Fareeha who gets off more, because it is easier for her to have more than one orgasm in a row—so if Angela comes twice, tonight, and she only does once, she thinks that would be fair enough.)

Still, Angela continues, stops kissing Fareeha’s neck only long enough to say, “I know, I _want _to,” before she returns to what she was doing, sucking hard at the delicate skin there.

Well, in that case, Fareeha is not one to complain, particularly when Angela’s fingers brush over her clit, and she can feel her hips buck in response. If Angela wants to lie here and lazily make love to her, Fareeha is more than content to allow that to happen. She does not think that this will take very long, in any case, because she was very aroused just a few minutes ago, from the stimulation from the toy and the knowledge of what she was doing to Angela both.

Still, this is a little unusual, not in the least because Angela, who usually complains profusely when Fareeha marks her, seems to have decided to give a hickey, for once. Certainly, Fareeha has no objections to the fact, but it is an unusual sensation, after several years of Angela adamantly refusing to do so. In the morning, Fareeha thinks, she will have to ask about the change of heart, but for now, she does not say anything, because she does not want Angela to stop, is enjoying the physical sensation and the knowledge that Angela is marking her both.

(Later, Fareeha will learn that Angela has thought about doing so many ties over the years, but does not want any of their coworkers seeing. With a week to themselves, she is less worried, and they will spend the morning with Fareeha letting Angela mark as much of her skin as she likes, adding bruises to the henna Fareeha was painted with just a few days earlier.)

After several years together, Angela is very good at knowing exactly what it is Fareeha likes, and how she likes it, even half awake, and Fareeha very quickly finds her heart rate is speeding up, in response to Angela’s touch, begins grinding down against Angela’s fingers so that there is more pressure against her. Her wife is good at touching her _just right_, and she feels so safe, so comfortable, so loved, with Angela curled around her almost protectively, and it is a heady thing, to be so loved, and so known. 

Quickly, almost too quickly, she can feel pressure building, notices the ways her thighs tense, and her breath begins to really pick up, and realizes she can hardly resist the urge to stay still, wants to move, wants to do _something_ in the vain hope that Angela will give her a little more pressure, will stop rubbing little circles around Fareeha’s clit, or gently brushing the tips of her fingers over it, and give her what she really wants.

Angela is, however, never one to be rushed, and is probably feeling a little lazy besides, given how tired she obviously is, and ignores the way Fareeha whines when she denies her the pressure she wants, gives only a little satisfied hum against Fareeha’s skin in response, and Fareeha swears she can feel the vibration from that in her whole body, that she shakes with it. Every part of her being feels wrapped up in Angela, Fareeha feels where she is touching, and feels, too, almost more acutely, the places Angela is not touching, feels the ghosts of all the times Angela has touched her in the past, and swears if she thinks for long enough, she can feel it, can feel Angela everywhere on her all at once, and in her. It is like they have become one—and Fareeha is hit all over again with the realization that in a sense, they have. Angela is her wife. Angela is her _wife. Angela_ is her wife. Angela is _her _wife. No matter how she thinks of it, it is near overwhelming, carries with it such a feeling of security, of love, of hope and joy and wholeness.

When Angela increases the pressure against her, Fareeha cannot stop the sound that escapes from the back of her throat, something like a sob. It is too much, in the best way, all of this, the feeling of her wife touching her so tenderly, and the knowledge of who is doing so, what they are to one another.

She stops thinking, then, gives herself over just to the feeling welling within her, not the usual tension but a pressure, a warmth, a heat, lets herself just feel that, and does nothing to hasten it, but does not fight it either, feels it grow, and grow, and grow, until suddenly it overtakes her, and she is shaking apart in Angela’s arms, the orgasm and the warmth of it washing over her in waves.

Then it is over, and she is cooling, again, but is not cold, not at all, is still held securely in the warmth of Angela’s arms, is still left with the feeling that she is safe, that she is cherished, that she is protected from the world. Angela has not let go of her, never will, and Fareeha has no words, now, for what she is feeling, says only, “I love you,” and again, as if by repetition she could transcend those words, and get at something more, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Angela says, her voice not so warm as it usually is when she says those words back, tempered considerably by how tired she sounds, “Always.”

_Always_, Fareeha thinks, _always always always. _

So much of marriage is only an extension of what they had before, a familiar routine given more meaning, more significance, because of the ways in which they have recognized it now, but this, the promise of always—it is new. Never before has Angela said such a thing, too aware that it may not be true, that something may happen, and now… now she has said it, Fareeha’s heart sings with it. 

Always, they will have loved one another as much as they do in this moment, always, they will have had this, always, Fareeha will be seen as worthy of this kind of love, of this kind of care, of this kind of gentle forever.

One day, she hopes, promises of always will become a part of their routine, too, but for now, she feels drunk on it, drifts off to sleep with the word still echoing through her mind.

_Always_, she is safe in Angela’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some quick notes  
\- yes its overwatch canon that weed got de-legalized in canada... fuck u jeff  
\- trans vaginas are different from cis vaginas bc... they really do have a different amount of stretch, and for some women theres always some initial pain w penetration. angela is unluckily one of those people, and w previous partners she just toughed it out/didnt say anything, but fareeha wont let her  
\- again, yes, henna is traditional in arab weddings too, and so fareehas still got hers on from two days before. that shits gonna be there for a little while
> 
> also i deleted a scene where angela is like. im almost 41 im too old to be discovering new things im into (sexually) and fareeha is like... um did u or did u not realize u liked women at age 37??? like clearly....
> 
> ANYWAY hope u enjoyed this long horny fic. they are married and they are happy


End file.
